


Pictures of You

by hoko_onchi



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alice Quinn & Margo Hanson Friendship, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Caretaking, Depression, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Endgame Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Eventual Smut, Fate, Feels, Fillory Fashion Show, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Healing Sex, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Lots of plot, M/M, Major Illness, Margo Hanson & Julia Wicker Friendship, Mentions of Cancer, Mosaic, Non magic but also magic AU, Ok it’s not all that canon compliant because fuck season five, Oral Sex, POV Margo Hanson, POV Quentin Coldwater, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Protective Eliot Waugh, Protective Margo Hanson, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Second Chances, Sex Magic, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Time Travel Fix-It, Timeline Jump, Vulnerable Eliot Waugh, all the feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 129,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: A story in multiple parts.In the beginning, Eliot is old. His life really hasn't gone as planned, not unexpectedly--we know how Eliot is. But, as it turns out, there's a way to fix things, to revise his life. And Margo knows what's best for him; she really does. Even if he doesn't know it himself.When he reaches Quentin, things aren't as simple as they seem. When you're two people at once in a world that seems entirely un-magical, nothing is really ever simple.And Quentin, as we know is never a simple human to deal with. His protective friend has a lot of things to say when she finds out he's been seduced by Eliot Waugh, talented fashion student and total disaster human that no one should trust.It turns out there was a reason Eliot was able to come here, and it's just like everything in his life--completely fucking tragic and complicated. But things slowly start to shift sideways, and there's hope in the strangest of places, and perhaps, magic as well.This is a story with: a whole bunch of feelings, explicit sex scenes because that's how I do, lots of Queliot, all the Queliot, characters slightly OC sometimes just because it's a different universe and there are no rules.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 256
Kudos: 240





	1. These Pictures Are All I Can Feel

**Author's Note:**

> TW: illness and all the sads.

~Eliot~

Eliot Waugh fell ill on the morning of his forty-fifth birthday. It was high summer at Brakebills. 

It was a strange time of year to be sick, but Eliot was sure it was nothing.

He cleared his throat that morning and cast a small healing spell—one of the only ones he knew well enough to perform—and he went downstairs to find his boyfriend—partner, whatever—making coffee. 

“I need a coffee. More than just about anything in the world.”

“Happy birthday,” Arch said sweetly, handing Eliot a coffee—extra hot and filled to the brim with heavy cream, exactly the way he liked. He should have been more grateful for Arch, and recently, he had been working on doing kind things for him and taking note of his “love language,” a concept he felt was total bullshit. He was trying. This morning, though, the best Eliot could manage was a half-smile. 

“Your voice is hoarse, baby. You might want to stop by the—”

Eliot prickled. “The hospital? No thanks. I’m fine.”

Eliot silently made himself toast—he wasn’t hungry enough for the feast of crepes that Arch had prepared. Without anything more than a perfunctory goodbye and several firm assertions that he just had a minor muggle cold he’d picked up on his last trip to the city, Eliot walked to the faculty lounge and gathered the materials he’d need to instruct the first years on the basic tenets of levitation.

By the time he made it to the midday session of Practical Applications, his tonsils were violently swollen. He kept sipping water as he tried to teach the doe-eyed first years who were still shocked to find themselves in a university for the magically inclined. It hurt to swallow. No, hurt was too gentle a word. It felt like knives, like flesh dying at the back of his throat.

After the class, he collapsed at his desk, aware as he closed his eyes that his chest felt strangely heavy, his airways constricted. He tried to take a deep breath but found he couldn’t. When he opened his eyes again, he saw double. His skin was on fire. He needed to get to the healers. 

Fuck, he thought, Arch was right. I hate it when—

He took one step toward the door and crashed to the floor of the classroom as the last student walked out, closing his eyes to darkness as he fell.

Behind his eyes, for just an moment, he saw Q.  
* * *  
  
Eliot had dreamed of Q often in the years immediately following his death, but those dark visions soon became weekly rather than daily, then monthly, then hardly at all. By the time he reached his forties—surprised as much as anyone that he’d actually made it to middle age—the dreams had stopped, almost entirely. 

Of course, he was relieved when the dreams began to fade, not because he didn’t want to see Quentin but because, more painfully, he always lost Q at the end of them. And he always awoke crying, sobbing, short of breath, hopelessly broken. 

There were no dreams now, which gave his mundane life at least some sense of normalcy.

For the past decade or so, he’d been making a hearty attempt at living a mature adult existence, something he thought he’d never be interested in doing. But well, here he was. He was offered a position at Brakebills on the condition that he would act as advisor to the top students in the Physical discipline. He taught Practical Applications of Magic 1 and 2 and Mastery of Telekinetics. He’d met and started a relationship with Arch, an herbalist who resembled Quentin far more than Eliot liked to admit (though Margo never failed to point it out, giving him shrewd, knowing looks when she did—He’s like Q but not as cute or interesting). Arch and Eliot had even settled down together in a small professor’s house at the edge of campus near the cottage where Eliot had lived during his years as a student.

Each year, he grew further away from the very worst time in his life. And so, it seemed, Quentin became fuzzier and progressively more distant in his mind. 

He did still have the worn picture of the two of them, taken not long after Q had arrived at Brakebills. It showed the them standing at the bridge over the river where they rowed and talked before the other students had arrived back at school, the very first week after they’d met. Smiling, bright-eyed. That’s how he liked to remember Quentin during that time—hopeful and excited, thoroughly thrilled to see Eliot any time he passed by the Physical Kids Cottage. The other memories were painful. Treacherous. Best left behind.

He welcomed the relief. _La vie quotidienne_. He liked the house where he lived, enjoyed teaching (he was actually a passably inspiring professor), and he cared for Arch in his own hesitant, broken way.

He’d even let Arch convince him to put away the picture of him and Q on a high shelf in the back closet, just barely out of reach. Eliot looked at it sometimes when Arch wasn’t home.

The painting that hung over the mantle, the one Eliot had commissioned the summer after he accepted the job at Brakebills, he kept. It was a patchwork of squares in fifteen colors, creating the pattern of a sunrise over water. He never explained it to Arch, so that piece of Q had been allowed to stay. It was hard for Arch to compete with someone who was long dead, so Eliot kept quiet as far as all things Quentin were concerned.

Yes, life was normal—if a bit monotonous. El had traded booze for herbal tea, his delicious array of party drugs for the focused study of telekinetic magic. He even tried his hand at meditation, but he decided it was a discipline best left to the psychics. He was centered, close to whole. The things people say you ought to be at forty-five. The things Q would have wanted him to be.

It worked. Up to a point.

When Eliot got sick the summer he turned forty-five, all of the things he had tucked inside of himself in neat little boxes could no longer be contained. As Eliot’s physical body began to break, so too did the tight control he’d worked so hard to develop in the past two decades. 

As Eliot slipped into deep unconsciousness, lying on the floor of the empty Practical Applications classroom, he started to relive his years with Quentin—one piece at a time—all over again.  
  
* * *  
The lights in the now-expanded Magicians’ Hospital at Breakbills flickered, warm and tinted orange, somewhere just beyond conscious reach. His chest ached. He didn’t try to open his eyes; in this dream, Quentin was kissing him desperately, drunkenly, his body pressed against Eliot’s, nothing between them. 

_‘El.’ Needy fingers tangling in Eliot’s curls. Quentin’s lips on his neck, tracing the line of his collarbone._

__

__

_His lips felt so good, so soft and pliable. His body compact and muscular. His mouth so surprisingly eager—_

Soft fingers touched his arm. There were voices humming in the background of Eliot’s mind, but he couldn’t separate one voice from another. There was shouting, a buzzing in his ears, and then there were words he understood.

“Hey,” one of the voices said. “Come on, El. Wake up.” 

“Q?” He tried to say more, but he couldn’t.

“No, El. It’s me.” Arch’s voice came to him, and Eliot’s brain replaced Quentin’s deep brown eyes, his hesitant smile, with the Arch’s not-quite-as-striking features. His partner. Eliot didn’t like the term. They’d been together for seven years, living in the same house for three. Arch wanted to get married. But El didn’t. Wouldn’t.

Eliot pulled his arm away, kept his eyes closed. His chest felt like it was filled with shattered glass.

The voices kept buzzing around him, but Eliot was trying to find his way back to unconsciousness. He rolled away from the voices, his bones aching, an interminable pounding in his temples. 

“He’s been like this since last Friday,” Arch said, the words becoming crisp around the edges. “He was waking up more at first. But he’s—he’s having nightmares, I think. About your—uh—friend who died. I think. El keeps saying his name. I think if we can get him to stay awake, the healing enchantments might start to work—”

“I don’t disagree that he should wake up. We need to talk to him. We need more information than these charts full of bullshit can give us.”

“The healers need to do the enchantments again. There has to be a casting to wake him up, just for a little bit.”

There’s a heavy sigh that sounds laden with cold disdain. He can almost feel the gritting of teeth, words held back, unsaid. How could he _feel_ that?

“Listen, Arch. You do shit with plants. You don’t know jack shit about healing. And you’re out of your depth when it comes to any spells that work on consciousness. You’d end up hurting him worse if you tried.”

“But—if he’d just wake up and see me—see the University—”

“Yeah, those are definitely the two most important things in Eliot’s life. You know him so well.”

“He does love it here. That’s why he stayed.”

“ Yeah. That’s why he stayed. You’d have better luck bringing in a bottle of whiskey and holding it under his nose like smelling salts.”

“You know he doesn’t drink anymore,” Arch said, his voice tinged with that annoying whine Eliot had tried to get used to for the past half-decade. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. He’s just replaced alcohol with a boring job and a boring—whatever you are.”

Whatever magic and medication that was coming into Eliot’s veins through the IVs kicked up a notch, and the voices became fuzzy again. They were arguing. That was funny. He heard himself giggle softly. The pounding in his temples faded, and he sank into memory. 

_'Design number seven hundred and thirty eight. We’ve replaced the red tiles with the blue we used from yesterday and—put the last orange-red tile, there.”_

__

__

_“It sounds like you’re dictating notes for the worst art class in human history.”_

__

_Quentin scoffed. “That’s how I did all my notes. I recorded them all after class.” He looked over at Q, who tapped his forehead lightly with one chalk-stained finger. “ADHD. Great for hyper-focus. Not so good for short-term memory.”_

__

__

_“Except there are no recorders in Fillory. And no phones. No computers.”_

__

__

_There was a dusty blue spot on Quentin’s head now. His hair had grown past his shoulders. Today, he wore it in a low bun at the base of his neck, held together with two sticks that El had cut and sanded for him on the day they thought was probably Christmas the year before. Whenever Quentin wore his hair like that, it made Eliot want to slip the sticks out and pull Quentin’s hair. Hard. Hard enough that Q had to tilt his head back, exposing the line of Quentin’s jaw, his neck, his unbelievably soft skin. Not just because the sound Q made was exquisite but because it helped eliminate the frustration of recreating the mosaic day after day, with no end in sight._

__

__

_“Put it in,” Quentin said, exasperated, throwing his arms up and glaring at Eliot._

__

__

_“Oh I will, Coldwater.”_

__

__

_Q was sitting up on their makeshift ladder, recording the design they’d worked together to make that day. “El. Come on. We can take a break after this.”_

__

__

_Eliot had ideas about the kind of break he wanted to take. He knew Quentin would want to read one of the fairy adventure books and eat the salty bread Eliot had made in the wood fire stove that morning. But he knew he could convince Q to take a brief—okay, maybe not so brief—detour before that._

__

__

_He regarded the vermilion tile, cool and weighty in his hand, chipped on the top right corner. That’s what Eliot called this color. Q called them orange-red because that was the technical name for the color, the name you’d use if you were ‘coding a little game on the computer.’_

__

__

_‘And we should use technical names for the colors to keep things consistent.’ Because that’s how you’d code them on a computer. Fucking duh, Eliot, obviously._

__

__

_That’s what Q had said about the fucking vermilion tiles the week after they’d landed in Fillory. It drove Eliot into a tile-scattering fit._

__

__

_He’d wanted to hit Quentin. To break the tiles. To—he didn’t know. But Q came up to him and put his hands on Eliot’s shoulders, and the unfamiliar, whirling panic in Eliot’s gut subsided._

__

__

_The vermilion clay tile clicked solidly into the last square. They waited like they always did, wondering if the key would appear. If they could make their way back home._

__

__

_But this time, Eliot realized he wouldn’t be so disappointed this time if nothing happened at all._

__

__

_And nothing did.  
_   
* * *  
He saw Quentin’s death again and again, even if he hadn’t entirely been there to witness it. He cried out when that happened. He wasn’t sure if it was only in his dreams or if the sounds of his raw terror made it into the blurry world of the hospital room beyond him. 

In brief moments of clarity, he could stop himself from wailing. In this particular dream on this particular day, he’d been able to save Quentin only to see him die hours later.

He could feel himself crying in his sleep. Fuzzy voices again. 

“He’s going insane,” Arch said, frantic. “And the muggle antibiotics aren’t working. They said he should have been awake by now. But his lungs aren’t clearing like they should.”

“The healers wouldn’t know a dick if it hit them in the face while announcing that it was a dick.”

“… What?”

“They don’t know what’s going on with El.”

“He has pneumonia.” 

“Yes, Arch. You’ve kept up very well with what the healers are telling you. I can see that you know exactly what will help Eliot. Clearly, nothing else is wrong besides pneumonia.” The voice is filled with towering condescension.

“But the healers said—”

“I don’t give a particular fuck what the healers said.”

“But—”

“Arch, when’s the last time you bathed?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well, you look like trash. And trust me, if El wakes up any time soon, he’s going to want to look at a man-friend who appears to understand the concept of personal grooming.”

“What? Man-friend? I’m his—”

“We all know what you are, Arch. You’re a place filler. But you’re passably cute and just about as boring as El needs you to be, so we don’t remind you of that fact.”

“You—you—” Arch stuttered, his voice wavering. “You apologize to me right now.”

“I’m sorry. That your three-day-old ginger-colored beard is growing its own ecosystem and your woodland-scented herbalist deodorant is no longer working. Go. Take a bath. Give me a _minute_.”

It wasn’t possible that she was here. She had a firm to run. A house in Monterey to renovate. Two daughters quickly approaching their teenage years—both of whom had personalities that matched—or outmatched—hers. And she didn’t like leaving her muggle wife alone with them. Every time she did, there was a disaster, usually having to do with illegal magic. 

She was a dream, too. That was the only realistic explanation. For the past decade, Eliot had visited her. She never came back to Brakebills.

“I’m staying.”

“No—you’re not. Get the fuck out.” 

Defeated footsteps left the room. 

_El started to sink back into sleep, attempting to conjure a better memory. The day Quentin had first said it. In Fillory._

__

__

_‘I love you. You knew that but like. I’m in love with you. Just so we’re clear. And it’s not just because Ari is—gone.’_

__

__

_Q’s voice had cracked at the mention of her. Eliot remembered Q looking over at Teddy, napping, unaware. Snoring gently._

__

__

_‘Q, you don’t have to—’_

__

__

_‘What? Be honest? You told me that first day to save my overthinking for the puzzle. I did. This isn’t overthinking. I’m stating a fact for you, Eliot. The trees are green. Centaurs are dicks. We had eggs for breakfast. And I love you. I kinda think I always have.’_

__

__

_Eliot had sobbed. There weren’t many people who had ever said that to him. And no one who had said it in quite that way._

__

__

There was a stirring in the room. The faint sounds of fingers moving. Whispered words. A pause. Eliot felt a surge of energy pumping through him, accompanied by the nausea that often occurred with the sobering spells he’d used frequently in his twenties. 

“Come on, El. Wake the fuck up. I need to talk to you.”

Eliot groaned.

“Wake up.” Thin fingers slipped through his. “Jesus. Don’t cock out on me, Waugh. I fucking need you here. Not—wherever you are. I know we don’t talk like we used to. I guess that’s—adulthood or whatever the fuck. But you’re the only person in the world who—” A sniff. The sound of tissues crinkling. “Fuck you, Eliot. Now I’m crying. You’re the only person I trust besides Mia. And the only one who I can bitch to about Mia.

I certainly don’t trust Mira and Maddie. They just turned eleven. And they’re both fucking insane.”

Eliot laughed, the sounds from his throat raspy. The image of Q faded slowly, and his eyes fluttered. 

“There you are, you fucker.”

“Bambi,” he murmured, his voice low. He coughed, his lungs protesting with pain, the searing in his throat overwhelming. “You did a magic.” Eliot swallowed, sending jolts of pain through his neck and somehow through every muscle and joint in his body. “How the fuck—how the fuck did—”

Margo took his hand. “What? What is it, El?”

“How the fuck did Mia get you to agree to those names?”

Margo’s fingers tightened. “Bitch. If you weren’t dying, I’d punch you in the dick.”

Eliot coughed, blinking. The lights were too bright. His eyes felt like they were covered in sandpaper. “…Still… got it.”

“Stop being so dramatic. I know you’re sick. That fucking healer I’ve been talking to thinks you’re on death’s doorstep. I was planning to tell her to eat a bag of centaur shit. Obviously, she has no idea what she’s talking about. Because you’re not dying. You’re right here.”

Eliot snorted. His tried to raise his head, but he laid back on the hospital pillow. It was lumpy, Eliot registered, and the fabric was scratchy. “Like to see that.”

“Look, honey. I’m going to be straight with you for a second.”

“Not that straight.” Eliot smiled. His teeth felt slimy. He hadn’t gotten up to brush them in—how long?

“Oh my fucking gods. Too sick to pee by yourself and you just can’t help it, can you?”

“No…” He coughed, aching, words coming slow. “It’s my favorite plot twist. Bambi married the sweetest muggle she could find and tricked her into having twin Margos.” Eliot hacked between the words, trying to laugh but failing. 

“Look, you cock. You’ve been out for three weeks. You’re being fed through a tube, and you’re skinnier than I was when I was—well, you know. And honey, it’s not cute.” He heard her take a tissue again. “Arch is driving me up the fucking wall. I don’t know how you stand that dishtowel.”

“He looks nice with my furniture.” 

“Fuck, Eliot.” She sighed again—again. “Look. Things are all fucked up in your body. And your dumb-ass brain. You’re dreaming about Q, aren’t you? Or not dreaming. It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Eliot didn’t say anything. 

“That hasn’t happened for a long time, has it?” 

Eliot closed his eyes again. “No. Not for years.” He watched the patterns develop behind his eyes. Peach and cream, burgundy and purple, three distinct shades of blue, sea green, dancing and floating in thousands of variations. Vermilion. They looked like tiles. 

“El.”

“Bambi.” He opened his eyes with some effort.

“I dream about him too. Sometimes.” She huffed. She flipped her hair to one side. There was a streak of gray in it that she didn’t bother to dye anymore. Margo didn’t look young these days, but she was just as stunning as the first time he saw her in her stilettos, walking into the Brakebills exam room. More. “And even if it’s some of the… truly fucking awful shit, it’s like I’m glad to see him.” She held his gaze. 

He didn’t say anything. 

“When I was sick,” she started and then stopped. She wasn’t one for big emotional speeches, but it seemed like she’d come prepared this time. She groaned. “When I was sick, I heard a lot of the nurses say that part of getting well comes from wanting to get well. They were muggle nurses, so they don’t really know jack shit, but I guess that part was like, pretty good advice. But I started to realize it was true. I had Mia and the girls, and I just wanted to go home so bad.”

“I want to go home,” Eliot murmured.

“You don’t have a home. You have a house. Right next to where we used to live with Q. Right next to it.”

“I have tenure. That’s the nicest house on campus.” These were the most words he’d put together since falling unconscious. His throat screamed. “Next argument.”

“We all know he was it for you. Or I do. Alice does.”

Eliot gave her an appraising look. 

“Don’t act so surprised. We talk. Or she talks at me about nerd stuff. And then I’m funny. She’s the only one of us on the West Coast. So.” Margo shrugged.

So, Margo was friends with Alice. That was cute. He was glad Bambi had a friend out in California who had been there for so much of what had happened. He closed his eyes again. 

“You know, she’s made a nice, nerdy life. She’s happy.” 

“She’s married that other professor guy?”

“Yeah. He’s okay. Loves Alice. All that shit. The kids are cute.” Margo let out a long breath. “I know that’s not the only way to have a life, El. But, baby, you never left Brakebills.”

“I like Brakebills,” he croaks, concentration waning. 

“Fucking fine. You want to stay here forever. I got it. But. You’re here and you’re not here. And right now, you're not here at _all_.” She stopped. “I’ve been here for two and a half weeks, you know. You woke up a few times in those first couple of days. You didn’t know who I was.”

Eliot swallowed hard, throat dry. “I’d know you anywhere, Bambi.”

Margo sniffed. “You thought I was—you thought I was someone named Arielle. And you kept asking me where Q was; who was taking care of Teddy.”

Eliot turned his head away. Shuddering pain struck him, reverberating through his core. He bit his lip, tasting blood.

“Who’s Teddy?”

Eliot shook his head. He closed his eyes hard, hot tears trailing down his face. 

“El.” Margo grabbed his hand. “I’m here to help you. And there’s shit you need to tell me. I need to know what the fuck is going on.”

“You don’t.” Eliot clutched at the cool sheets, pulling them up to his chin. 

“I don’t scare easy. And I don’t leave Mia alone with the girls this long. They’re fucking crazy and about to hit puberty, and she can’t deal with two eleven-year-olds who are learning as much fucking magic as they can. Not on her own.”

Eliot laughs, imagining Margo’s insanely stunning redheaded wife who got way in over her head when she met Margo. “They’re teaching themselves magic. Shit.” Eliot kept laughing until it was too painful, his abdomen clenched and angry from nearly a month of coughing. “They sound like nerds. Bet they like Alice.”

Margo laughed. “They think Aunt Alice is so cool. I give her shit about it constantly. They think I’m the shitty, lame one… They were born with psychotic levels of determination and confidence. Oh—and I might have mentioned it before. There’s two of them. So I have two magic-obsessed nerds who give absolutely zero fucks about safety. Mia and I should have left well enough alone when the first five transfers didn’t work.”

Eliot remembered that time. It was part of the reason he’d never told her about Teddy. Margo and Mia had tried for so long. He’d never pegged Margo as the motherly type. But then she’d met Mia. And, of course, there was the doctor who had told Margo that she had prematurely aging eggs and she’d likely never have biological children. No one’s ever told Margo she couldn’t do something and gotten away with it. The winter after Maddie and Mira were born, she’d sent the guy a Christmas card showing Margo breastfeeding both twins, wearing nothing more than a very well made replica of her crown from Fillory and a pair of lacy briefs. The inside of the card read: _Fuck you. You were wrong. -M_

__

__

“You’re a good mom.” 

Eliot’s vision was growing hazy, but he could feel Margo rolling her eyes. “I’ve done my best. But I’m not sure what I’ve unleashed on the world.”

“You love them, you big sap,” Eliot said.

There was a pause. The silence grew between them, filled with the tension of unsaid things and the looming specter of Eliot’s illness. Margo leaned in close to him and brushed damp curls away from his forehead.

“El. Who’s Teddy? Tell me.” She brushed a tear away from his cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “You sounded so… scared.”

Eliot was quiet for a while, but it was clear he wasn’t getting out of this. “He was… my son. Except he grew up in Fillory’s past. He’d be older than me now. But he only existed—maybe still exists—in another timeline.” He started to sob. 

“The pocket world. With the mosaic. You shouldn’t be able to remember that. Not clearly. Not after all this time.” Her voice quivered a bit, her trademark confidence starting to slip.

“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t. I didn’t. Not until I got sick.” Eliot took a deep breath, feeling himself drift further away from the room. “Arielle was Quentin’s wife. We were, well, we were all together. She died and then—well, Quentin and I raised Teddy. We had grandkids. Q told me he was in love with me about six months after she died.” Tears stream down his face. The drugs in his system, the strange clarity brought on by Margo’s casting… he never talked about this. Never. 

“Jesus. El. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought if I didn’t talk about it, I could forget it like I was supposed to. You and Alice knew the basics. I figured that was enough for anyone to know.”

“Are you somehow trying to get back to Q?”

“No.” _Maybe._

“None of the standard treatments are working for this, El. There’s something else at play here. Something not entirely—I don’t know. And you’re not… you’re not fighting it, are you?”

“I somehow don’t see that as my fault.”

“El, this isn’t how you go. It can’t be.”

“My death will be far grander than we could possibly imagine. I won’t go like this, Bambi. I promise. There’s nothing else at play here. I’m sick. I’ll get better.”

“Good. Now sleep.” Margo moved her hands, a small sleep casting that felt better—so much better—than all the best drugs in the universe. He assumed it’s something she picked up as a parent. It wasn’t typically Margo to know things like that.

Margo took a cool hand and stroked Eliot’s face as he fell asleep. Her skin was silky soft, and her scent was always vaguely floral and spice. Her deep red nail polish was chipped. And when she thought El was asleep sometime later, he saw her rifling through her purse. She pulled out a dogeared copy of _Fillory and Further: Book One._

__

__

She left it on his bedside table. 

Eliot cried then, quietly, softly. Tears stung his cheeks. It hurt to remember. It hurt worse, perhaps, that he’d forced himself to forget so, so much. This infection, resistant to everything the healers tried to throw at it, felt in some ways like a blessing. Even if he had to feel the weight of Q’s death whenever he closed his eyes, he could also feel Quentin’s arms wrapping around him.

Something inside of him had broken. Even after all these years. After all this time. And all the healing he’d attempted. He was wracked with sobs, body shaking, sore and weak from coughing.

A week later, he woke up for real, without the help of any casting. His lungs started to clear, but breathing was painful for months afterward. He shook off the notion that the illness was anything more—anything, well, magical. Or cursed.

But the dam remained broken. That he couldn’t explain.

He knew he was horrible for doing it, but he just… ignored his relationship, hoping it might silently go away. In January of that year, Arch moved out. 

Whenever Margo called Eliot, he told her that he was fine. Yes, he had the memories. But that was good, wasn’t it? It was good to look back at beautiful things. Margo didn’t push beyond that.

But he’d started drinking again, here and there, little bits. He picked up smoking, despite the healers’ best efforts to let him know how stupid that was. Most nights, he preferred not to see anyone at all. 

The dreams kept coming. Eliot didn’t know what they meant. He didn’t want this kind of torture—did he? Or had he done it to himself? 

He even went so far as to try a memory-erasing spell, something that, again, the healers didn’t recommend. He had a week, maybe two, with a weight lifted from his shoulders. 

But Q came back to him.

Sometimes these things don’t work.

On the morning of his fifty-seventh birthday, Margo called and told him to come to California. A once-in-a-lifetime event. A party to celebrate both of them being really old.

“How are you, El? Really?” She asked right before he hung up the phone.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Everything is fine.” He hung up and smoked a cigarette, drawing it out and wondering when his lungs would finally give out. 

The picture of Quentin was on his mantle. He stubbed out the cigarette and touched the worn frame, telling it goodnight before he went up to bed.


	2. Bigger and Brighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Margo gets the gang back together because they're all, as she says, "really fucking old." And somewhere along the way, she gained an unlikely new friend. The kind of friend who happens to be really, really good at crafting flawless, dangerous magic in ancient Estonian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Illness, impending death.

~Margo~

“What are you doing, Aunt Alice?” 

Margo watched as her eldest twin, Mira, as she quietly observed Alice. Alice twitched a bit nervously when Mira stepped up next to her and touched her arm. Her twins were never super big on understanding the concept of personal space. And Alice had always needed a bubble, but the bubble, Margo thought, was growing smaller and smaller after over thirty years of knowing her. 

Mira and Maddie rankled Alice—they were both relentless extroverts like Margo. But, unlike Margo, they were both intensely academic. Sure, Margo the Destroyer was still a highly talented magician, but her gifts were derived from instinct and the desire to outdo anyone else in her general vicinity. The girls were different. She had made sure they would be. Curious and creative in a way Margo didn’t think herself to be. That was why Alice kept coming to visit, more and more these days. She loved those girls. She even allowed them (stupidly, Margo thought) to babysit her own kids when they were in high school and college, and she taught Mira and Maddie as much safe magic as was currently prior to graduate school. After everything from before, Alice was big on safety, especially where it concerned the people she loved. Well, more or less. 

The kind of magic Alice and Margo were currently researching was decidedly not the safe kind. But Margo was nothing if not convincing. There was something that needed fixing— _mending_ —and she needed a full team to get it done before—well, before Margo couldn’t do magic anymore.

“I’m helping your mom make a gift for her friend.” Alice glanced nervously at Margo, who was curled up on her grand leather couch, under a blanket her wife had made when she was sick for the first time. She shrugged at Alice. She didn’t much feel like getting riled up these days. It wasn’t worth the energy. And besides, somewhere along the way, Alice had become her friend. A real one who she trusted with her life, with her daughters’ lives. The once-in-a-lifetime kind of friend. She counted herself lucky that she’d gotten to have three of those kinds of friends in her life. Most people didn’t even get one.

“For Uncle El?” Maddie looked up at Alice from her spot on the sectional and then glanced over at her mother, noting the glass of Chardonnay in her hand. That one knew a lot more than she let on. She’d be good for Mira when this had all shaken out. 

“What language is that in?” Mira leaned in closer to the incantation Alice was working on.

“Ancient Estonian. The wording has to be exactly right. You see here—” Alice pointed at the second line. “If we use a different word or don’t pronounce it exactly right, the casting will be off. Your hand movements can be perfect and precise, but if the wording is off, the spell will—”

“Go to shit,” Maddie cuts in, still on the sofa an arm’s length from Margo. “The pronunciation for ancient Estonian is especially difficult if you’ve never used it before.” 

Margo laughed. “Nerd.” 

“Fuck off, Mom.” Maddie smiled and threw the book she’d been reading in Margo’s direction. 

Margo caught it. “ _Popper’s Practical Exercises for Young Magicians, Volume Two._ Jesus, Mads, you’re a glutton for punishment.”

Maddie gives her mother a haughty smile. “I’m planning on being the best magician in the Physical Discipline that Brakebills has ever seen. Besides Alice.” 

“Oh honey, I believe you. But you are a nerd. I totally love it.”

As many fights as she and Maddie had—driving both Mira and Mia insane—she’d stuck close by Margo’s side. If she thought too much about it, Margo might cry. And a bitch wasn’t planning to cry with guests arriving. She might not want to move much from the sofa, but she was damned if she wouldn’t keep her mascara intact. 

“I’ll be the best,” Mira said absently. “I’m better at Junior Welters than anyone you sad lot know.”

“I could kick your ass to next Tuesday,” Margo commented. She picked up an emery board from the coffee table and worked her nails into perfect ovals. They were brittle now. She kept them short.

Alice sighed and looked back at Margo. “Q would have loved them.”

“Goddamn, Alice. Let a bitch have a second to process what we’re doing. We are not going all sappy just the fuck yet. I haven’t had nearly enough wine. And the spell isn't done.” 

Alice smiled, a smoother, sweeter smile than she ever wore during her time at Brakebills. “It’s true.”

Margo nodded. “It sure as fuck is. My girls are bad bitches.”

“And the rock? Is it a tourmaline?” Mira says, still studying Alice’s Estonian spell and ignoring her mother.

“It’s a boulder opal.”

“From Fillory?” 

Alice cut her eyes at Mira. “Yes. You know your stuff. These hold a great deal of energy, but it keeps that energy safely contained.” 

Margo smiled. Alice was always honest with her girls. It wasn’t in her to treat them like children. Maybe it had to do with the fact that the girls were frighteningly intelligent and well, just a little bit scary. Maybe it just had to do with Alice and the person she’d become. Either way. 

Alice checked over the paper again, making a minor correction. “It looks good, Margo. Is Julia bringing the pine and moss?”

“Our lady of hippie living is driving down from Humboldt with Kady. They went there first and gathered all the shit we need. We’ll be able to do the casting before El gets here. And then the caterers will bring all the best shit. Mia wanted to cook, but this is a strictly magician-catered event. I sent her off to her parents. She's had enough of taking care of me, and I'm frankly sick of her cuteness.”

"Mom," Maddie said.

"She's my ride-or-die, Mads. But this is different."

“Can I touch it?” Mira leaned forward over the table to look at the shimmering green and brown stone.

“Absolutely not. I’m putting you in normal people college if you do. That’s not a lie. No Brakebills,” Margo said, making an attempt to sound steely. Instead, she just managed to sound kind of bitchy and tired.

“You wouldn’t,” Maddie said. 

“She’d make good on her promise,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “We’d be at Cal Poly with our memories wiped before the year was out. She’d wipe Mama’s memory too.”

Margo shrugged as if to say, ‘Maybe.’ She would never, but she needed them to think she might. It was just about the only threat she had left.

There was a crash in the kitchen, and she turned to look. Penny was standing there, in an open vest that showed his white chest hair. That fucker somehow still had abs. He plucked an apple from her fruit rack. “So what the fuck is this all about?”

“Getting the gang back together. For one last quest. We're going to Fillory to make a deal with some very ugly fairies.”

“Fuck that. No quests,” Penny said. He strolled over and looked at Alice’s spell and the brown-green-gold stone in the center of the table. “What is all this shit for? And why do you need me here?”

“Because you wanted to see my beautiful face. And El and Julia and Kady are coming. Maybe Josh. Magicians only old people rager. We’re going to get fucked up and play shuffleboard.”

Penny scoffed. He looked around Margo’s living room—the girls, Alice with the faintly glowing opal, Margo on the couch with her too-big glass of Chardonnay. “So what’s actually going on?”

Mira looked up at Penny, stone-faced. “Mom has about six months to live. And she’s making some kind of weird gift for Uncle Eliot. You Millennials and your old people shit. It's exhausting.”

Penny gave Margo a glance and then walked up to Alice, inspecting her spellwork and bending down to get a closer look at the Millennial shit in question. “You guys,” he said, “are absolutely batshit insane.”

“Might as well go out with a bang,” Margo said. She drank the last of her wine. “Let’s do something crazy.”


	3. Remembering You Fallen Into My Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets on a plane because he is super over portals. He has a sex dream. Wasn't what I was planning, but it's what Eliot's brain had in store. Q is a ho for Eliot's dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! No trigger warnings here. Graphic sex ahead b/c I'm a dirty romance writer and that is how I do!

~Eliot~

At nearly sixty years old, Eliot had gotten good at pretending he had his shit together. He was always good at compartmentalizing, even if the Quentin stuff was thoroughly un-compartmentalized. He might have been an old spinster, but he didn’t own twenty cats, and he didn’t hoard thousands of old copies of TV Guide. He had managed not to get possessed, enchanted, or cursed since—well, since all the worst of it was all over. And he’d been healthy, more or less, since the pneumonia. 

He might have moderate liver damage, but he didn’t especially feel like checking. So he didn’t. 

He smoked his cigarette to the nub and then flicked it, still burning, into the air outside terminal twenty-three at La Guardia International Airport. With a quick tut and three-word incantation, the cigarette vanished. 

“Sir, you can’t litter here.”

Eliot looked at the guy—muscular, short-cropped hair, TFA uniform shiny and crisp. He was exactly the sort young Eliot might have enjoyed playing with. The oh-no-I’m-so-straight bootlicker with a hard-on for football and America. He didn’t have to unpack that in muggle therapy—that was all derived directly from the fucked up years he lived in Indiana. These days, he went on dates with guys more or less like himself—fascinating and worldly semi-silver-fox types. Professors and artists and musicians. A few master magicians who thought a lot of themselves. He liked some of them well enough, but they never stayed. 

“I never litter.” The Xanax he’d taken half an hour ago was hitting him. His skin hummed. From the air, Eliot produced an identical cigarette butt from thin air and theatrically mashed it into the cesspool of ash and sand at the top of the disgusting airport trashcan. 

"Sir--sir--excuse me--"

He ignored the self-important guard and sauntered back into the terminal and purchased a Diet Coke, an US Weekly, and a bottle of Advil. He checked in and went to the first class lounge. 

Eliot hated flying. And airports. And airport security. He hated the lukewarm food and the mass of bodies and the sheer muggly muggle-ness of it all. But he hated portals more. He'd had quite enough of them and preferred driving his vintage Aston Martin or flying if he absolutely had to. The door at Brakebills that supposedly linked New York to California was permanently on the fritz. The last time he’d tried it, he woke up in Tijuana next to a half guzzled bottle of shitty tequila. That would have been a fun weekend for him at one time, but now it was just sad. (He preferred to get quietly drunk on expensive alcohol nowadays.)

If there was an emergency, sure, he’d use a fucking portal. But portals these days weren’t entirely reliable. And there was the little weird thing that they usually made him black out. 

That was another thing he could add to the list of things that may indicate he was, finally after many practiced years of self destruction, losing his goddamn mind. 1. Quentin dreams. 2. Fucking mosaic hallucinations. 3. Portal black outs. One and two were sorta the same, but he felt he needed a fully rounded list of three should he ever have to explain his insanity to Bambi.

The Xanax took firm and final hold, and he ambled along with a sea of impatient, non-magician, but possibly also medicated people and took his cushy window seat in first class. He promptly fell asleep.  
***  
_  
Quentin paced a lot. He paced around the mosaic every morning, talking incessantly about patterns and math and Fillorian magic and the keys and Jane Chatwin and the life they weren’t living. It was infuriating._

_But then there were moments he’d catch a glimpse of Q, working out his problems or creating a spiral with the tiles, looking at them, lining them up, lost in thought. The late afternoon would illuminate his soft brown hair that was now streaked with light touches of gold from working daily in the sun. Or Q would say something bratty or funny, and Eliot would laugh and look at his soft, perpetually pouty lips and think about running a thumb over them, slipping a finger between Quentin’s teeth, touching his tongue. Just to see how it would feel. It wouldn’t be frantic and grasping like the first time they’d been together with Margo. Slow. Intentional._

_When Eliot first saw Quentin walking across the Sea to the main hall at Brakebills, El had been struck by his beauty—for lack of a better word. He certainly wasn’t sexy or butch or well-dressed. There was nothing like, totally striking about him. It was more the sum of his parts: the sweetly floppy hair and the puppy-dog eyes beneath nervously expressive eyebrows. Above all that, he was earnest—unassuming and unaware of the immediate effect he’d had on Eliot._

_But it wasn’t productive to think about Q that way. Q wasn’t attracted to him, and he wasn’t into men, not in any _real_ way. _

_He’d rather spend some time getting to know the barkeep at the village tavern instead. He was sexy and fun and easy. Eliot liked easy, and Quentin was _not_ easy._

_And despite all of the petty arguments and the tile throwing and Q’s constant pacing and the insistence that the next time they’d get it right, Quentin was Eliot’s friend. Not counting his much missed Bambi, Q was Eliot’s truest and most loyal friend in this timeline or any other. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—jeopardize that._

_And then._

_They’d decided to celebrate the one year anniversary of their quest drinking a strangely aromatic rose-tinted Fillorian wine and eating roasted carrots and potatoes from their garden and a salad drizzled with basil and sweet almond oil. (Eliot had to get used to the fact that he was good at gardening, and that he enjoyed it. What gave him the most pleasure, really, was taking care of Q. When Quentin was in the midst of ADHD hyperfocus puzzle insanity, he frequently forgot to eat. The more El gardened, the more he enjoyed the look on Quentin's face when he made surprising feasts from fresh food he'd grown in the gardens around the mosaic.) The two of them were slightly buzzed, pleasantly full, stretched out on their patchwork quilt, waiting for the moons to rise._

_‘We’ll figure this thing out.’ It was the first time in a while that Quentin had sounded confident. Or positive. ‘But I ah—I think this area of Fillory is nice. It’s not all bad. Anyway.’ Q’s cheeks were rosy from the wine._

_‘No, it’s not all bad. Maybe we can just consider it a quaint vacation from reality.’_

_‘Like going to the beach with a thousand piece puzzle. And you put a few pieces together at a time between swimming and eating sandwiches and building sandcastles. It’s like a bit of glue holding the vacation together. Even if the puzzle is tedious, it’s like the center of all the good things.’_

_‘That was startlingly coherent, Coldwater. Are you sure you’ve had enough of this—’ Eliot looked into his cup. ‘—weirdly sweet and somehow also bitter wine?’_

_Quentin laughed. ‘Just trying to look at it from a different angle. Even though—well, you know, we’ll figure it out and we’ll get back to everything else.’_

_‘I’ll drink to that.’ He paused, thinking about the puzzle. Maybe it was simply the thing they came back to in the midst of their lives in Fillory. He thought that was nice even if it sounded like a crock of shit._

_A grin crept across Quentin’s face, and Eliot tried not to think about his lips. Instead, he lifted his wooden cup of wine. ‘Happy anniversary, Q. To our first and last year at this thing.’ Their cups clicked together, and they drank._

_Quentin put his cup aside and tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging into a small, mischievous grin. ‘Hey—’_

_‘Hey.’_

_‘I, um—’ Quentin leaned forward and kissed Eliot, lingering for a few moments. When Q pulled back, he looked—pleased, happy, a bit teasing. Open._

_Eliot kissed him again, reflexively, a long-neglected flame sparking inside of him. He touched Quentin lightly, a gentle hand on his neck. Time slowed, and Eliot felt the soft wisps of hair at the base of Quentin’s neck, the velvet touch of his lips, a slip of his tongue. Q let out a small sound, a sound of wanting, a need to be touched and explored and feel the warmth of skin next to his. Eliot’s hand moved from Q’s neck to the his shoulder, slipping his hand beneath the worn hoodie, traveling down the length of his threadbare black t-shirt and lifting it, touching his skin, running his fingers through the thin, golden patch of hair that sat at the V of his abdomen. Quentin moaned again, desire made into sound, touching Eliot’s lips, telling him _yesyesyes_ more. Eliot reached up to the tie that held back Quentin's hair and let it fall loose. Q gasped, and Eliot kissed him fiercely, tugging Quentin's hair, fingers caught in its softness._

__Bad idea,_ Eliot thought. _Probably a really, really bad idea.__

_But he couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop kissing Quentin, one kiss after another, tasting him, listening to his soft noises as he leaned in to be kissed, couldn’t stop his hands from moving lower, from pulling Quentin’s hoodie and shirt off his body in an awkward, messy tangle. They were both laughing, lips and hands pulled together, the delight of skin and hair and heat beneath their fingertips._

_He forced himself to pause, even as Quentin’s hands snaked around him, even as he leaned in closer. Eliot stopped Quentin from kissing him again, cupping Quentin’s face, breathless. Something twisted in Eliot’s sternum, something primal and needy and grasping. But he was Eliot Waugh, and he wasn’t undone by a simple kiss._

_(But it’s not simple.)_

_‘What? Did I—um—do you not—’ Quentin’s brown eyes were on his, searching him. Looking into him like he knew him, really knew him, and wanted him anyway._

_Eliot panted. ‘Are you… are you sure you…’ Eliot couldn’t find words. In his real life, the one back home where things were real, and if not predictable, not completely unreadable, unexpected, out of left field. Well, up until he met Quentin and really weird things started happening. That should be another sign. What weird thing would happen if he kissed Quentin again._

_‘Yeah. I do. I really, really want to. I want you, Eliot.’_

_Ah, fuck, it should be illegal for someone to say his name like _that_. There was so much buried in those syllables. _

_Eliot let his fingers travel over the strong line of Quentin’s jaw again. It was rough with the type of peach-fuzz stubble Quentin acquired after not shaving for a few days. Eliot wanted to bite it. Taste it. But._

_(It’s just pleasure. Q is the one who overthinks. Not you.)_

_‘You’ve never…with another—’ Eliot started. Q’s lips were pink and parted, swollen from kissing. Those lips he’d remembered, even if the details of that time before came to him only in fits and starts. Curious, exploratory, eager, hungry. His cock stirred, pressing against the fabric of his trousers, the same ones he’d been wearing for a year now. Exactly three-hundred and sixty-five days with Quentin._

_‘Just with you.’ Quentin didn’t seem inclined to expand on that. But he smiled, somehow confident. Not the Quentin he’d first met. Different. More self-assured. It had happened, Eliot supposed, when he wasn’t looking._

_‘And you want to—’_

_‘Yes,’ Quentin said. He pulled closer to Eliot, kissing him again, unbuttoning the buttons of his shirt that had been mended many times now, his clever fingers that were so suited to fine, detailed magic. He moved deliberately, achingly slow, lips touching Eliot’s softly, gently, each kiss a feather-light peck. He closed his eyes and sighed as Q removed his shirt, bringing him in close and pulling him down to the blanket beneath them._

_There was a muscle memory to sex, certain things the hands and fingers and lips do automatically. Simple biology doesn’t care about the complications that arise from such pairings, the ones that are surely not meant to be. The body wants what it wants—closeness, reassurance, the heights of pleasure that had seemed so long forbidden._

_Eliot moved his hands to Quentin’s well worn jeans, pulling them down as he kissed that teasing, blush-pink mouth. Hips lifted; twin moans issued from deep within them. Eliot’s fingers snaked down and caught Quentin’s cock, rock hard from the simple kisses and touches they’d exchanged. Eliot lowered his mouth to taste him, to bring him to the back of his throat, to feel the smoothness of his skin with his tongue and moan against him. Strong fingers tangled in his hair._

_‘El—fuck—ah—that’s so—you’re so—’ Quentin babbled, nonsense falling from his mouth, both of his hands now pulling haphazardly at Eliot’s curls. Quentin pulled hard, hips bucking up, beautiful o-shaped sounds falling from his mouth. The skin on the back of Eliot’s neck prickled as he took Q again and again, tasting the salt of his skin. Lightning ran through Eliot’s core, through his body, to the tips of his fingers and toes, to all the places he kept hidden inside of him._

_‘El—stopstopstop—I’m going to—but I want—’_

_Eliot groaned and lifted his head, letting Quentin’s hard cock fall from his mouth. It was flushed and swollen and so, so lovely. Eliot kissed it and laid his head against Q’s abdomen, looking at him through the flickering light. ‘What could you possibly want that’s not this? What do you want?’_

_‘I want you to—the almond oil—I want you to—’_

_Eliot’s cock was impossibly hard, pressed through thin, worn fabric against the cold of the tile, the blanket bunched up under him. The wanting of it poured through him like rain, but he kept his eyes trained on Q’s face. ‘What do you want me to do?’_

_‘I want you to—fuck me,’ Quentin managed with some of the typical Quentin-ness of pauses and stutters returning. Eliot grinned. Quentin had kissed him. But it made him nervous to ask this, this thing that Eliot also wanted._

_It was unexpected. Eliot had envisioned a repeat of their one time together minus the Margo of it all. A one time thing. A release of stress and steam. But of course, he wanted this more. He’d wanted it quite a long time. Still a monumentally terrible idea. Eliot, lying there next to Q, figured he’d gone through with worse ideas than this one. And truly, what was wrong with fucking someone you care for deeply?_

_(Complications.)_

_‘Thought you’d never ask.’_

_Quentin huffed and stumbled over his moans as Eliot lazily stroked his cock, unbuttoning his trousers with the other hand and shucking them off in the jumble of dinner and cups and clothes on the mosaic that they’d remade more than three-hundred times. He grabbed the almond oil and slicked it over his fingers. He pressed them against Quentin’s seam, exploring the tight ring of muscle, rubbing in circles so that Q moaned. Eliot had the passing thought that he hoped someone would hear them, hear how much Quentin liked this, how he’d been undeniably right in all of his fantasies since the moment he laid eyes on Quentin Coldwater._

_(Stupid idea.)_

_Eliot pressed a finger very, very slowly inside of him. There was a deep, gorgeous groan as El prepared him, touching and slicking him, relaxing and readying. ‘It can feel a little… rough the first time.’_

_‘Come on—ah—’ El slipped a second finger in, deeper, hitting and circling that most sensitive spot, working him, feeling him slacken and open. 'Don't care-'_

_‘Not until you’re ready. I like to leave boys better than I found them.’ He hoped that sounded light, carefree, like an Eliot thing to say. Like this wasn’t anything serious. It wasn’t. Quentin’s body relaxed around his fingers, and he fucked him slowly, watching his cock jump as he pushed inside. Yes, he supposed beauty was the right word for that thing Quentin had, the thing that drew people in. He was exquisite now, legs spread, hips arching up._

_‘Please,’ Quentin said with a groan, meeting Eliot’s gaze, bald desire in his eyes._

__Fuck._ _

_He hoped that Q couldn’t see his fingers trembling as he picked up the oil again and slicked it over his cock, dripping more over Quentin’s seam. He removed his fingers slowly and readied himself, pressing the head of his cock to his hole. He wanted to take him fully, push inside deep and quick, filling him. But this was Q. He’d be slow. He pushed against the ring of muscle gently until it stretched enough to fit the head of his cock._

_‘Oh my—fuck—that’s so—I didn’t know it would feel so—’ Q babbled and panted as Eliot slid inside of him inch by inch, pushing and groaning._

_So _tighttighttight_ and hot. ‘You want it all, don’t you?’_

_‘Y-yes.’_

_Eliot pushed his full length inside, Quentin’s body both clutching and welcoming, his arms and chest slack, pupils blown and moaning. He pushed out and thrust in again, concentrating on the pull and friction, the feel of the oil, the look on Quentin’s face, the thing he’d dreamed before but laughed off as a joke. He went fasterharderquicker, falling into a rhythm, surging into him. Precome from Quentin’s cock was pooling on his tight little belly, luminescent and lovely in the faint light. Gaining purchase with one hand propped by Quentin’s head, he wrapped his other hand around Q’s cock and pumped in time with his thrusts, moving faster and faster now. The heat started to build inside of him, his skin prickling with the need for release._

_‘Q, baby, come for me,’ he said, low and husky, eyes locked on Quentin’s._

_The words brought Quentin’s eyes back into focus. He bit his lip as Eliot stroked him, his breath coming faster and faster, Eliot pumping into him, stroking him. With a long moan, Quentin spilled hot ropes over Eliot’s hand, sighing and whimpering, clutching at the body above him as Eliot’s core tightened and balled up and came through him all at once in an absurd rush of pleasure. He closed his eyes, thrusting hard and groaning, nearly crying as he sank into oblivion and came hard, filling the beautiful boy beneath him, kissing his flushed lips and murmuring words he was certain he wouldn’t remember the next day. His mouth lingered over Quentin’s, and they lay together, breathing hard, lips connecting over and over again until they were laughing at the absurdity of it all—the quest and the puzzle and the two of them tangled together in a jumbled, human mess._

_El closed his eyes, knowing he would never not want this. But that was something he wouldn’t admit for many years yet.  
***  
_  
Eliot woke up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, the kind he got these days after these types of dreams. And yes, while he was thinking about it, these types of Quentin dreams had been happening all too frequently for an old—well, distinguished—man. 

You ruined me, Coldwater. He thought that sometimes, directing his frustration at the ethereal Quentin, the one everyone had been expecting him to ‘just get over’ for so long. To Margo’s credit, she had never said that. She said a great number of other incredulous, concerned, indignant and verbally creative things about what she perceived to be the sad state of Eliot Waugh’s golden years. 

_Really, Bambi. Daddy was still dating. So what if he didn’t have a live-in man-friend partner thing?_

He’d tried before, and it was, if not a disaster, not a resounding success. He’d broken Arch, who was a good man and unfailingly patient with Eliot who had given him nothing much besides coldness and distance. 

He shifted in his seat, holding his leather bag with the Brakebills insignia over his lap as the plane began to descend to San Francisco International Airport. 

He felt like he could still smell the particular scent of Quentin’s skin, mixed with grass and ozone and sunshine. He tried to grab it and hold onto it sometimes, but his efforts were always unrewarded. 

He wasn’t young anymore, and hopeless, star-crossed love affairs were so very out of vogue. His brain hadn’t gotten the hint at any point in the past twelve years. He didn’t give fuel to Margo’s theory that something strange was happening to Eliot. He was just a sad old queen with a broken heart that had never properly healed. And he was pretty damn sure that was all his own fault.


	4. Screamed at the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo's wife had plans. I couldn't stop her from going through with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of cancer, death. Don't worry, our girl isn't leaving El just yet. She's a magician, so she's got this shit all worked out.

~Eliot~

When Eliot had first met Mia Hanson-Wright, he was deeply suspicious. It wasn’t that Mia was a woman. Margo had a proven interest, at the very least, in unbearably attractive humans with breasts. Eliot had always thought, however, that Margo would end up with no one. Or, that wasn’t really true. He’d thought she’d end up with him. Not in any totally romantic way. In a like, I’ll-move-in-with-you and we’ll-grow-old-and-laugh-at-everyone-together sort of way. She was his Bambi. Not anyone else’s.

It didn’t make sense that she’d chosen to settle down.

Certainly, Mia was sort of the perfect specimen of a woman. She was long-legged and tall with deep auburn waves that she kept loosely tied at the nape of her neck, her eyes a shocking azure blue. Her face wasn’t a picture of modelesque symmetry, but the slight crook of her nose, her left eyebrow slightly higher than the other, the uneven smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks made her more striking than any runway beauty. 

Margo must have done a seeking spell to find that one, Eliot had thought, quietly, when he’d shipped himself out to California for a very awkward dinner party where Mia had stumbled all over herself to impress him and Margo’s dippy parents, literally wringing her hands as she served a burnt _casserole_ made with cream-of-something that put Eliot in mind of an Indiana family reunion. Margo’s parents had left, drunk, and Eliot had stayed quiet, picked at his casserole, and plotted his escape.

The most shocking, difficult, and frankly _weird_ thing about Mia was that she was _nice_. Genuine, kind, thoughtful, and utterly without pretense. And Margo’s reaction to her? The biggest Bambi-est doe-eyed silly-in-love sort of thing; the way that Todd had looked at any pretty girl who’d paid him attention. But this was Margo. His Margo. She didn’t just fall in love. And _well_ , maybe he was a little jealous. Bambi had always reserved the depths of her love for him. 

That night, after he’d been perhaps a bit awful at dinner, Margo had followed him out to the cramped balcony of her San Francisco apartment, where he lit a cigarette and watched it glow along with the flickering lights of the city. 

_‘Tell me right now why I shouldn’t cut your dick off.’_

_‘Because it’s too pretty. And besides, she’s not right for you. Too nice. Too white-bread. Too—well, not too much of anything, actually. It’ll never last.’_

_‘You can have more than one soulmate, fuckface. You should know.’_

_He didn’t wade through the implication in her words. The subject was currently off limits. ‘And yours is a sweet muggle from South Carolina who serves casseroles and box wine at a dinner party?’_

_’Wanna dicksplain my relationship to me? Or give me any more amazing life advice? Because you’re a life expert? My parents were actually fairly well-behaved even if they were plastered.’_

_Eliot sighed and watched wafts of cigarette smoke. He was currently at a level zero when it came to life things. He looked at his Bambi, her deep brown eyes filled with rage—and pain—and he decided not to reply._

_‘Trust me. I know this is right. I will always, always love you. But I will slap a bitch if you don’t go in and apologize to Mia. Now. And you need to learn to love her—because I do. And I don’t plan on giving either of you up. Ever._

That, as they say, was that. Eliot had apologized as genuinely as he could, and he kept his acerbic thoughts to himself, reserving his petty judgments for the dark moments when he was alone, when he could throw the insults and jabs into the empty pit inside of him.  
***  
Mia had grown on Eliot, quite unexpectedly. And that’s how she’d roped him into this whole _thing_ she was planning, though El didn’t know what the thing was just yet. He was curious. He’d been waiting a couple of decades for something exciting to happen.

Eliot opened his emails as he stood outside the terminal, waiting for the car to arrive. He clicked on Mia’s name to go over the long and very, very interesting thread she’d started with him six months ago when Margo started chemotherapy a second time and neglected to inform Eliot. 

Perhaps, Eliot mused, he and Mia should be falling all over themselves, crying every day. Eliot had his fair share of tears—privately, in his office or at home over a cocktail he’d created just for the occasion of crying over Margo. It contained gin, elderflower liqueur, champagne and a smidge of one of Josh’s mind altering substances that made him feel extra bitchy when he cried. He called it “Margo’s Cancer is a Cunt.” Mia texted him and said he just needed to remove the second word, and it would be perfect. 

Regarding Margo’s impending death, Eliot and Mia had moved beyond sadness to a new phase of grief available only to those who got to do their mourning ahead of time. Eliot was deeply irritated. And Mia Hanson-Wright was enraged.

He stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and scrolled through the emails in which Mia made use of uniquely vulgar phrases she had likely never uttered aloud and had almost certainly learned from her verbally creative wife. 

Eliot wasn’t angry, not anymore. He knew Margo. Of course she would plan some grand finale for the end of her life. And she’d be doing it without either Mia or Eliot’s input. Just to show them who was boss. 

He lit the cigarette with a snap of his fingers and took a long drag. He had his flask. He had packed several mind-altering concoctions Josh had shipped to him the previous month. And he had a carton of cigarettes, despite the fact he’d recently quit smoking again. Well, mostly. Margo’s whole-weekend dying festival seemed like an appropriate exception. He’d just gotten an early start.

His phone buzzed. It was Bambi. 

**Margo:** Are you on your way yet? Need to tell the strippers when to get here.

Eliot rolled his eyes. 

**Eliot:** Uber arriving momentarily. Be there soon. 

**Margo:** Are you 80? There’s no such thing as Uber anymore.

Eliot stood there and smoked, aware of his creaking bones and his oldness and the Xanax hangover he would have been able to avoid a decade ago. They were all getting old. But it was a deep injustice that the body he’d treated so poorly kept working, heart pumping blood, lungs free of clouds or lesions, liver supposedly still chugging along. Margo had taken care of herself. She had built a family she loved with the same ferocity she brought to everything. She’d talked her daughters through all the ‘icky girl things’ she detested, and built them into women who would scare the shit out of anyone who wanted to get in their way.

She had people who depended on her. Eliot had... a small succulent he watered every couple of months. He had named it Todd and was rather proud of keeping it alive. But it wouldn’t miss him. Margo should be the one still ticking long enough to see her girls outdo her as magicians. Eliot knew he didn’t deserve his health.

He finished the cigarette, disappeared it, and pulled his white sports coat over his shoulders. It was deceptively chilly in San Francisco this time of year, and the short-sleeved blue cashmere shirt he’d selected wasn’t cutting it. He was trying to pull off a casual, sporty-California new-money sophisticate type of thing. But it was hard with the wind whipping through the pick up lane, threading to blow away his hat and the jacket he’d casually draped across his shoulders. If he was being honest, he could have pulled it off twenty years ago. It was a bit questionable at fifty-seven. Everything was a bit questionable at fifty-seven.

A giant white SUV pulled up to the park-and-ride, tires screeching and bumping against the curb. 

The driver leaned across to the passenger side door, hurling it open. 

“Mia, you know there’s no stopping in the white zone,” Eliot said, throwing his leather bag into the spotless seat well. 

“Look, Betty—don’t start up with your white zone shit again,” Mia responded, her voice dry. She smiled at Eliot, but her eyes showed the wear and tear of grief. She sighed heavily. “Get in, El. We have something to sort out.”

Eliot nodded. He got in the car and grasped Mia’s hand quickly before she wheeled out of the airport, headed for her home in Monterey. As Mia sped, erratically hitting the gas pedal and brakes as she headed for highway exit, Eliot gripped the armrests and prepared himself to prevent an accident if necessary. Mia had never been a good driver, but she was clearly in a headspace that made her into a certifiably insane driver. 

“Mia,” Eliot said gently, “Please don’t get us both killed. I know I’m not the hopeful, carefree youth I once was, but I do value not ending up in a ditch on the side of the road somewhere in San Jose.”

Mia took a breath. “We have a pitstop first. And then—dangit—you’re right, you can drive if you want to.” Mia, agitated, adopted a Southern twang she didn’t usually have. It would have made Eliot deeply amused if she weren’t swerving on a highway overloaded with Californian muggles. 

“I never want to drive. Or fly. Or go anywhere, really.” Eliot looked out the window at the city passing by them. They’d be passing Brakebills West, tucked safely under wards and located in a hidden spot in Castle Rock State Park. He’d never visited, even though Alice had tried to get him out there a thousand times. 

“Well, you’re going to need to pull your head out of your butt and get yourself together. There are things that need tending to.” 

Mia, in halting words that dripped with pain, updated Eliot on the most recent events in Margo’s end-of-life drama, including her all-too-frank discussions with their daughters, her usurping of all family-related events and scheduling of visitors, and her refusal to pursue further medical treatment. This had all culminated with her kicking Mia out to do something dangerous with magic, which was not exactly surprising, but it was completely obnoxious. And Mia said she was planning something big—not for herself, but for Eliot. 

“Typical,” Eliot said. “Bambi’s always been a steamroller.”

“Tell me about it.”

Eliot sniffed. “I did warn you. At your wedding.”

Mia shrugged. “I just thought you were being an ass.”

“I was. But I wasn’t wrong. Your high king Bambi is formidable. And she will always win.” 

“Not this time. I might not be able to do all this stuff—” Mia made an impression of a minor casting spell, and Eliot snorted. “But I know my wife. I’ve figured out what she’s doing, more or less. And I have my own stipulations to add. So you and me, we’re stopping in Santa Cruz. We’ll get lunch and then—” She fumbled with something in her giant, acid green Kate Spade purse. She shoved a piece of paper at Eliot, nearly swerving off the highway. 

“What is this, little muggle?” He lifted an eyebrow, still clutching his armrest with one hand. 

“I might not be a magician, but I’m the state’s best estate lawyer. And I’ve written up a lot of complicated things for a lot of the crazy rich people in Northern California. So.” 

Eliot skimmed the paper, eyes growing wide. “And this is a legal contract? Subverting Margo’s wishes, I assume?”

“Of sorts. Yes. It is legally binding under California law. And _you_ are making it into a Word as Bond.” 

Eliot looked at Mia. The pale skin beneath her eyelids looked bruised, and her eyes were close to spilling the tears that dotted her lashes. But her jaw was set, her brow furrowed. 

“If I agree,” Eliot said, eyes still trained on his first soulmate’s wife. 

“You’re _damn_ well going to agree, Eliot. I might be losing Margo, but I’m not losing you. Not yet.”

“And what does Margo’s grand departure have to do with me doing anything? I’ve been very good at doing nothing at all for a vast amount of time.”

“Oh trust me, your merry band of misfits will be giving you all the details. M says you’ll agree. But I need this from you first.” 

“Guess I’ll have to get over my traveling thing.”

“Guess you will.”

***

“My sweet babies! What are you, like fourteen, now?” 

Mira and Maddie both ran for Eliot like girls much younger than they actually were. They were both nearly twenty-three and would soon face their exams at Brakebills West. But they both crashed into him, hugging him tight. Maddie had tears in her eyes, but she wiped them away and buried her face against him.

If he could get through this not breaking his heart in two, he might just survive without any soulmates left on earth. 

He wasn’t as steady on his feet as he once was; the old wound hurt on rainy days and after long flights. He steadied himself against the weathered wooden railing of the expansive porch overlooking the Pacific Ocean. 

“I got you presents.” He lifted two gift bags from behind him. 

“God, we’re not twelve anymore,” Maddie said. 

Mira was already opening her bag. “Oh shit, these are awesome.” She pulled out a pair of soft leather, knee-high boots with thick heels in a deep brown-plum color. 

“Custom made. They’re for kicking boys. Or girls. Whoever you want to kick. Rage at the world is as fluid as gender and sexuality. Tell everyone you learned that from your Uncle El. Oh, and they’re waterproof, fireproof for good measure. And they’ll change to match your outfit.”

Maddie opened her box, laughing with morbid delight. “Fuck, is this what I think it is?”

“It’s a real fairy skull. It won’t do much in the way of magic. But you’re my weird little baby, and I knew you didn’t give a fuck about boots.”

“Mom’s going to freak. She’ll want to steal it.” Maddie kissed Eliot’s cheek. He was aware of how thin his skin felt, how ancient. 

“She is really not a fan of fairies.” Eliot pulled both girls in for a hug.

“Thank you so much, I—” he heard Mira start to say. “Wait, what the fuck is Mama doing here?”

Maddie pulled away and crossed her arms. “Mom is going to fucking kill you.”

“Please, language,” Mia hissed. She hitched her bag over the shoulder and ambled up the steps, carrying the folder with the contract, now signed, sealed, and bonded.

“What’s _that_?” Mira asked, holding Eliot’s arm and pointing to the folder. “It’s enchanted. Isn’t it? That paper—let me see it.”

Mia snatched it to her chest as she walked up the stairs and sped into the house. “Hands off.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Eliot said. “Now let’s go see the woman who dared bring you into the world. She was playing with dangerous magic to get you two here.”

The twins laughed like he was joking. Eliot shrugged. It was better that they did think that, anyway.

He walked in to find a few faces he hadn’t seen in over twenty years. And Margo, glued to the couch, glaring at her wife. Her eyes flicked over to Eliot. “Now, what the hell have you two been up to?”


	5. Breaking Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny wanted a chapter. I don’t make the rules.

“This is a truly fucking terrible idea. If you assholes haven’t learned that like fifty times over, you’re not only assholes, you’re also idiots.” Penny watched Alice as she tried experimental castings over the opal. Margo’s terrifying and frankly creepy twins were watching Alice like she was some kind of goddess of magic. And if he was being legit honest, Penny thought, Alice was also terrifying. One of the only people here he could tolerate for more than five minutes at a time—but also _terrifying._

“And there are children here,” he added uselessly. 

“We’re twenty-three, dickwad,” one of them said. He couldn’t tell them apart, which made the whole horror movie vibe they had going even worse. There was something off about them, and it wasn’t just that they looked exactly like Margo. Alice was huddling with them like a possessed mother hen, which was another bad sign. Alice Quinn might have that whole shiny Brakebills Dean thing going on, and the whole domestic cookie-baking mom facade, but deep down, Alice liked really fucked up magic. The whole safety song and dance she put on was a show, or a lie she was telling herself, at the very least. 

When Alice looked at the girls, it was clear that she loved them. But she was also somewhat in _awe._

“Do you know anything about this, Waugh?” 

Eliot was just lounging on the porch next to the open door, smoking. He hadn’t said much of anything since Margo lifted herself off of the couch with pure force of, like, spousal anger and started yelling at her incredibly hot wife. 

“Dude—I’m talking to you.” Penny stepped up to the door. 

Eliot shrugged. “No idea. I’m just here for the show.” He kept looking out at the water and took a swig from his flask. “You want?”

“Naw, I’m good. I don’t drink and travel.” 

Eliot shrugged and kept his eyes on the horizon. That dude was completely distant and drawn into himself and obviously in some kind of other world entirely. And Penny should know. 

Below them, a beat up van pulled up to the head of the driveway and parked. Penny watched, arms crossed, as Julia and Kady—double blast from the past—started up the stairs with armfuls of witchy woodland stuff. This was not good, and Penny was very much over the not-good parts of his life. He came here to say goodbye to his old friend, and what did he walk into? Some old-as-fuck, god-invoking, plant-fueled, hippie-ass ancient Estonian time ritual nature-spell magic rock thing that Alice, Julia, and Margo had thrown together with the twins from The Shining.

“Fuck this. I’m out.” In the split second Penny readied himself to depart, one of the twins caught his arm.

“You’re staying.” The twin with the boots was observing him coolly, touching him now with just the tips of her fingers. “We need you.”

Penny blinked, expecting the lightning fast drop-of-the-stomach that went along with traveling. He opened his eyes and found himself still standing at the open porch door. The smoke from Eliot’s cigarette wafted up and made fleeting images in the air. A flower. A tree. A basket of fruit. 

“The fuck just happened?” Penny looked around the expansive, clean living room that looked like a room in every other rich white people house in Monterey. But it wasn’t, was it? Not with these people in it.

The yelling of the two women escalated. “I need help with them, Margo! I am way in over my head! And he agreed!”

“You didn’t give him a choice,” Margo seethed. He could see him behind the glass French doors that clearly weren’t warded to block any fucking thing.

“Welcome to the shitshow,” Eliot said. He handed Penny the flask.


	6. Slow Drowned; You Were Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo reveals her plan. The gang gets schwasted. Eliot makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Major character death (not violent, very peaceful, don't worry, I'm going to fix everything).

Slow Drowned/You Were Angels

~Eliot~  
“From what I’ve found—and there’s not much on the subject—I think it was a time pocket and not a separate timeline. And not a time loop,” Julia said.

“We know that, sweetie,” Margo replied. She had started on what Eliot assumed was her second bottle of wine. It was a fair assumption.

Exhausted, Mia was slumped beside her, sipping on one of Eliot’s custom cocktails—absinthe, gin, crème de violette, sour cherry liqueur, and fresh lemon. It was her second cocktail, and she was well on her way to completely sauced. Margo was holding her hand in a very un-Margo way. But that’s sort of how Mia made Margo behave.

“Well, we’ve been talking about what might have happened,” Julia said, who was clearly trying to mask the frustration in her voice. “Just in case you wanted to stay informed. You know, on all the stuff you told us to do.”

Eliot got up from his seat on the couch in the too-bright room and went into the kitchen. He made himself a drink, even though he already had one. He knew this weekend was going to be an emotion-fest, but the subject had turned to him instead of Margo as the late afternoon sun crept across the sky. 

He still adored praise—craved it—and when he chose to be in the company of others, he naturally sought the spotlight, welcoming everyone to the latest edition of The Eliot Show. But he took center stage on his own terms. His friends were taking charge now, arguing about the unhealed wound that sat at the core of who he was. And Margo had apparently shared those secrets with everyone here. They all knew now that El had never stopped indulging in the crisp, bright memories of their long dead friend. He watched, silent, as Julia and Alice—never quite friends but respectful of one another’s prowess as magicians—argued about time.

It wouldn’t help, whatever they had planned. _Foolish old friends. Don’t you know I’ve already tried this?_

Eliot mixed chilled Tanqueray with absinthe, bitters, and a touch of the crème de violette because it was purple, and this whole conversation was making him feel violently _purple_. He drank it and looked out at the ocean. The sun would be setting soon. It had always been Quentin’s favorite time of day.

“El? Eliot? We were talking to you,” Alice said, her voice coaxing, like she was talking to a small child or a timid animal.

“You’re talking around me,” Eliot snarked. He finished the drink, still standing at the bar. He tried to at least maintain a level of functional alcoholism, limiting himself to approximately three and a half strong mixed drinks on weekday evenings, with room for two to three extras on Saturdays and Sundays. But tonight, he was not nearly drunk enough yet. 

“C’mere, I love you,” Margo said, her words drippy with alcohol and some other nameless feeling that seemed to be a mix of contentment and sadness and desperate hope. “Come sit with me.”

“No.” He stirred his drink, prickling like a cat. Everyone was now looking at him. 

“Please,” Margo said. His people were strewn all over that expensive couch. His Bambi. Her daughters. That muggle pet of hers he’d grown to somehow adore. 

“Fuck. On one condition—you get this bullshit over with quick. I’m old. I don’t have time for these games we used to play. They are over. And I just want to celebrate your queen bitch fabulousness and get your wife really, really drunk.”

Mia raised her glass vaguely in her direction. “Another purple thing, please.”

“Coming right the fuck up.” Eliot poured and stirred and was keenly aware that everyone was far too quiet. 

“El,” Alice said. “We want to help you.”

“It’s really none of your business, Alice. Just because you did all the lovely little things you set out to do and grieved correctly and exactly how everyone expected doesn’t mean that you get to meddle in my life.”

“Eliot—” Julia started.

“It’s a fair point,” Penny said. “Plus I cannot stress enough how bad an idea this—”

Eliot raised a hand to stop them. “Quentin is gone. He’s been gone a long time. I’m beyond it, no matter what Margo might have said.”

Alice took a deep breath. “We don’t think he really is gone. Yes, Eliot, you have mourned him very differently. That’s a fact. You didn’t get beyond it, though. That is painfully clear. You need to listen—”

“No, I really don’t. I need to say goodbye to my best friend—who I currently hate—because there are limited chances to do these things in life, and I need to get it right this time.”

“Listen, bitch,” Margo said. “Don’t mansplain Alice’s loss to her—”

“Respectfully, Bambi, I am gaysplaining.”

Mia laughed. “I freakin’ love you. You are like, the least annoying of all these people.” Mia _kept_ laughing, clearly unable to stop. It was one train stop away from crying, but that was the train they were all riding. He’d better give her some extra fuel. She was the only one he wasn’t mad at, anyway. 

Eliot sauntered over, attempting to put the nonchalant I-don’t-give-a-fuck mask right back on where it belonged. He handed Mia another drink. 

In the silence, Kady cracked open a beer. She’d been unusually quiet, sorting through the hedge type shit she’d unloaded on Margo’s dining room table. “I usually don’t side with Alice or Margo on principle, especially because they’re usually fucking with things they shouldn’t.”

“Hey—I don’t—anymore—” Alice started.

“Yeah, you do. It’s like a historical fact.” Kady was still sorting through a variety of plants whose scent profiles were conflicting with the absinthe in Eliot’s cocktails. Rude.

He was working hard to ignore her. And everyone. He finally ambled over and sat on the couch—pointedly next to Mia, who felt like his only ally in all of this—with a new drink in his hand. He picked up the one he’d left on the coffee table.

“That’s what’s up. Double fisting,” Mia said. 

“I’m excellent at double fisting.”

She snickered into his shoulder. “Oh, you smell so good. Margo, you should smell him.”

“I have. Smells like gay disaster.”

“Incidentally, that’s the name of these two cocktails if I mix them together.” He poured the remains of the old drink into the fresh one and banished the empty glass to the coffee table with a practiced flick of his wrist. 

Mia dissolved into giggles, and even Margo let out a snort. She reached over and touched Eliot’s glass of Gay Disaster. Frost slithered across the glass in perfect fractals, chilling the drink to the exact temperature he’d always loved. Cold enough to numb his tongue and the insides of his cheeks.

“Thank you, Bambi,” he said softly. 

“I love when you do that,” Mia said, burying her face in Margo’s next. “Like Elsa.” She laid a kiss on Margo’s cheek and melted into her.

“You’re both so embarrassing,” Mira muttered. She was flicking through her phone like there wasn’t anything unusual going on. 

Kady rolled her eyes. “Eliot,” she announced, clapping, “the magic is legit. Julia found historical references to several people who were stuck in time pockets with another person. Like—you’ve always said it didn’t really happen—”

“I don’t know where you’re getting your information because I don’t recall discussing any of this with you.” Eliot sipped his drink and ran his fingers through Mia’s hair as she held on to Margo. 

Kady nodded to Julia. “She told me, and she’s the one who figured it out. For you. For Margo. It’s Margo’s gift to you.”

Eliot took another sip of his drink, sinking into it like a warm blanket. “And what does _it_ do?” 

“If it works, the boulder opal should contain the power to get you to another world.” Alice poured herself a glass of wine.

“I’ve been through all the timeline bullshit, and we know it’s not going to work with Q. He’s gone,” he stated, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “So whatever this thing does to whatever time loop or line or time thing—”

“Not a timeline, dumbass,” Penny said. He was still clutching Eliot’s flask, clearly rattled and freaked out by the twins, which was _hilarious_. More than a little warranted, but also hilarious. “Or a time loop. Or a pocket. You know there are multiple worlds, and there are worlds on top of worlds. The worlds sitting closest to us are echoes of this reality. But they’re not exactly easy to get to, not like traveling through worlds laterally. This is like... flying up or sinking down into the earth instead of just walking to get where you’re going. Not recommended. Like full stop. Y’all don’t know what you’re fucking with. It would require power we don’t have. And there’s no way to go _back_ in time one of these other worlds.”

“That you know of,” Alice said. 

“That would be like—god level shit, and we know exactly how safe it is to fuck with gods,” Penny said.

“Depends on the god,” Margo said. 

Eliot groaned. Through the fog of his mind, pieces were starting to slip together. “Margo. You told them.”

“They’re adults,” Alice said. Like she was a member of this family. Like she’d been there when they were born. “It’s more dangerous for them not to know at this point.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Penny said. He drank from the flask again. “They’re not—Margo—what did you do—“

“Mom, that guy is such an asshole,” Maddie said. 

“Not as bad as the other one,” Margo said.

“Margo—what—did—you—do—” Penny started.

Mia raised her head. “It’s done, isn’t it? It’s not undoable. And it shouldn’t be. We made our petition, and we got the family we wanted.”

“Who in the fuck did you petition?” Penny asked.

“Saraswati,” Margo said. She poured another round of wine, Riesling this time. It sloshed into the glasses. “And she responded. And they are here. And both very, very intelligent. And very, very gifted.”

“Daughters befitting a queen,” Mia said.

“We’re yours, too,” Maddie said, looking at Mia pointedly.

Hazily, Eliot took a glass of wine because why not. It was kind of a weird night. It was fine to mix alcohols when all of this was going on.

“When did your mothers tell you?” Eliot asked, looking at the girls. 

“Six months ago, when she got sick again,” Maddie said. “We—well, we kinda figured. Anyway.”

“So you’re using your kids to help make this thing that’s supposed to take me to some other world where—what?—where I don’t know anyone?” Eliot was on the edge of really very drunk, and still, none of this seemed like a good idea. “For me? Why?”

“But you would,” Penny said, sighing. “I mean, it’s not like the same in every single world, but you tend to… keep to the same circles. And for better or worse, all of these dicks are in your circle. It would look different, be different.” Penny shrugged. “Same people.”

Eliot sat with this and downed the rest of his drink. “And you wanted me to be able to use this thing immediately.” He looked at Margo. 

She nodded. “If you wanted. You deserve a fresh start. If that was something you wanted to try.”

“We wanted you to have it, too,” Maddie said. The two young women were attached to each other now, sitting at the other end of the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table. Like they hadn’t just been doxxed as demigods. 

Before Eliot could reply, Alice launched herself into the conversation again. “Julia and I think that the time pocket might have created a really—like really strong—connection between you and Quentin. Or reinforced something that was already there. It was… unresolved. So your body and brain are reliving it for you.” 

“Like a soul bond,” Julia added lightly.

“Wait, whoa,” Penny said. “That is some serious Twilight fan-fiction shit. That is not a thing.” 

“I agree with Penny,” Eliot said. “That is absolutely stupid. I have a lot of unresolved issues: daddy issues, identity issues, drug issues, alcohol issues, a whole smattering of general life issues. But that is—no. And I hate all of you.” 

Margo shrugged. “If you say so. But we’re doing it. And it’s my gift to you whether you like it or not. I’ve been looking at this stuff for twelve years. And I even had to put up with Alice _and_ Julia to get everything ready.”

“Destiny is bullshit,” Eliot said, staring into the bottom of the wine glass. “This is all bullshit. Life is completely random, and the fact that any of us know each other is all incidental.” 

“It’s really not,” Julia said. “With us especially. We were put together. In forty different timelines. We had a course of events that we had to follow. We’re past that now. But we all had a purpose. And when you and Q ended up in Fillory for fifty years, it created something like a glitch when Q died.”

Eliot found it hard to swallow, but that might have been the wine. “Would he know me? Is it the same—the same thing all over again?”

“No,” Mira said. “We’ve been able to see a limited amount. And it’s not at all the same. It’s very different due to an event in the past that wiped out magic almost entirely. Brakebills exists there, but it’s no longer in use. It’s abandoned. We can’t get a read on what happened exactly. This is a world, for the most part, without magic.”

“So I’d give up magic?” Honestly, now that he thought about it, that didn’t sound so bad. It hadn’t made his life any better, not in any real, lasting way. For the most part, magic just made things more violent and terrifying. And if there’s no magic there, then Q might… well. He wasn’t going to do this insane thing, so it wasn’t worth considering. 

“Well, we don’t know,” Maddie looked at her sister and tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. “We can’t get a full idea of what’s happening there. But yeah, for the most part, it’s a world that was somehow disconnected from common sources of magic.”

“And what about the Eliot who’s already there?”

“In his timeline, he dies,” Margo said softly. “But you’d be able to take over his consciousness and his body if you choose to. The opal would take you to the exact moment of his death.”

“And Q?”

“We think he may have echoes of this world,” Mira said. “Again, we’re not entirely sure. We’ve never known him, so we can’t get the same kind of information from him. But he hasn’t met you, not at the point where you jump in. We can’t tell much else.”

“You’re able to get a read on him from here?” Penny asked, looking a little queasy. “Goddamn that dude is easy to hear.” 

“He’s easier than anyone else we’ve looked for. But we still don’t know… much.” Maddie shrugged. 

“You’re both psychics? Shit. And you—what are you? Are you a traveler?” Penny pointed accusingly at Mira.

She shrugged. “Dunno. I just know I can keep you here until I say you can go.”

“That is… both fucked up and really impressive.” 

“My best guess is that they’ll be… multi-disciplinary students,” Alice said quietly. “That will be difficult to explain to other students and faculty, but we’ll figure it out.” 

“We can be really low key,” Mira said.

“Oh my God—no you can’t,” Margo laughed. “It’s going to be a total nightmare having you guys there.”

“And that’s why I’m moving here after the semester ends. I’ll be here at least until the girls graduate according to the contract I signed with Mia.” The words sounded distant when he said them. “I’ll be able to help. Maybe. As helpful as I am, which is sort of like a five out of ten on most days.”

“The Word as Bond,” Mia said, sort of half-coherently, “stipulates that El… will stay until he wants after that. Always a home here. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Eliot said. He remembered Margo telling him that his place at Brakebills was just a house. This would be different, at least.

“Alright, now. I’ve yelled at Mia enough, and El’s gotten her drunk. Is everyone else sober enough to do this thing?” Margo gently moved Mia to a prone position on the couch. She was stronger than she should be by now, but Eliot suspected she was using quite a lot of magic to remain presentable while they were all here. 

“Maybe the morning is the best,” Alice said. “We’ve all been drinking.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mira said. “We haven’t been. And Alice taught us the casting. Everything is ready. Might as well—”

“Guys, I don’t need this. I really don’t,” Eliot said. His head was woozy, and the whole ‘other worlds’ thing was fundamentally confusing. He wasn’t sure he’d understand it any better sober. “Bambi, you can’t do this for yourself, can you?”

“No, baby,” she whispered. “I have had exactly the life I wanted. And I’ve been a fabulous bitch while I was at it. There’s nothing more I want, honestly. Just tell Q I say hi.”

“I won’t use it. He won’t know me. I won’t have you.”

“Okay,” she said. “That’s up to you. But I have a feeling it’s important for you to take the risk. And not just for you.”

“Where did that feeling come from? You don’t get feelings.”

“I don’t really know. We’ve been working on this a long time. It’s just a feeling.”

***  
The next morning, the memory of the past night’s events came back to Eliot in flashes. He made a _lot_ of drinks—and helped drink them. He refused to participate in the whole boulder opal ridiculousness that Margo had concocted. There were chants and the hand gestures the twins had painstakingly learned—not, he thought, exactly for him, but because the magic was interesting. They were knowledge seekers, and they observed and studied magic with a methodical curiousness that bordered on disturbing. There were controlled flashes of light, excited squeals from Julia and Alice. And then there was a lot more drinking. Like way more than any of them should be doing.

He did remember asking Alice how it worked. That stuck out in his mind. 

_‘You just hold it when you’re ready. It’ll only work for you. Don’t touch it until then. You’ll be okay, whatever you decide to do.’_

_‘But I’ve never really been okay.’_

She also offered him a job at Brakebills West because she was Alice, and the core of her was thoughtful and kind and good. He accepted in the morning, in the light of day, as he tried casting away his deadly hangover. He didn’t mention the stone again. 

After the third hangover cure he tried to perform, he heard footsteps pounding up the stairs and a rap at the door. Mia groaned and walked over to open it. There was a loud, boisterous voice that rang through Eliot’s head like the violent clanging of bells. “What did I miss?”

“Hey, Josh,” Mia said. “You missed… really quite a bit.”

“Cool, well, party can start now. If anyone is hungover, I have got _just_ the thing.” 

“Oh, thank the gods,” Eliot sighed. “We are all very, very hungover.”

What followed that night was a much softer, sweeter thing. Margo had thrown herself her own wake. She hadn’t wanted to miss it. Eliot had the grace to be a bit more sober so he could order around the caterers and help Margo get dressed while Mia cried and Margo coolly admonished her for crying, which made her cry even more. 

After everyone left, Eliot stayed. He decided to just hang up his hat at Brakebills immediately because there were certain things in life he refused to miss. And he’d rather not have to fly across the country again. If he was here, he was here. Margo was very against being fussed over, but he wore her down. He kept the boulder opal on a shelf, trapped in its pine box, in the guest bedroom where he’d permanently installed himself. He still dreamed of Quentin. But at this point, he had not expected that to change.

He started at Brakebills West the day of the twins’ entrance examinations, which he’d advised them to underperform on. They managed to only garner a little fascination, and for the most part, they stayed under the radar their first year there. That May, Margo died in her sleep, and he and Mia and the girls were the ones to scatter her ashes near her childhood home just outside of San Francisco. There was no funeral, no wake. She had done that already, and like everything Margo did, she did it exactly how she wanted.

She was right, ultimately, about the way she orchestrated it. Her death was not a frantic, awful, forceful thing. Not like the losses they had all experienced in their youth. That wasn’t to say there wasn’t grief or sorrow or the ordinary failings of the human body that caused pain and decline. Margo, though, had managed to do it all better than just about anyone else he’d ever known.

Typical. 

***

Two years after the twins had graduated from Brakebills West, Eliot prepared dinner with Mia. The girls were home for the weekend. There were no casseroles served.

“I’ve done some thinking,” he said after they sat down together. “And I think I’m going to go.”

That night, he stayed up late drinking wine with Mia on the porch. The twins were swimming and talking and laughing below them, in their pool that faced the ocean. 

“Thank you,” Mia said. 

“You’re most welcome. I never thought I’d like you, you know.”

“I really, really didn’t like you at all. But I knew you were part of a package deal.”

“Mm,” he said. He lit a cigarette even though he’d just stopped smoking. He figured this last pack didn’t count. “Guess I won you over.”

“You did. Pretty quick after you made up your mind.”

“Made up my mind about what?” 

“That I wasn’t going anywhere.” 

“Margo sorted me out.” 

“She was good at that.”

“Really, she was the very best.”

“I’ll miss you, El. But I think if what y’all say is true about the underworld… you’re definitely part of my circle. And I guess I’ll see you again.”

“You will.”

They watched the sun brighten the sky and dance over the water that morning. 

Eliot went inside and, without a second thought, took the pine box in his hands and grabbed the stone. He held it for less than a moment before the box clattered to the ground.

He was gone.


	7. Always So Lost in The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II begins. Quentin is alive and well and a sweet, floppy haired angel in another world. He sees Eliot for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the bullying Summer actually went through as a teen. She went through a lot, and she's a fucking boss. I hope those bullies all get fucked by the fairy queen.

Always So Lost in the Dark

~Quentin~

Quentin’s advisor hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic about the idea for his first year culminating project. Children’s fantasy wasn’t exactly high literature, but Q had laid out each of his arguments, all the complex themes in the books he’d chosen, and the importance of exploring tropes in formative fantasy literature. His monologue had apparently been persuasive enough, if not entirely eloquent. Quentin didn’t do eloquence; he did crushing anxiety. There had been too many ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ and a particularly awkward ‘well, if you think about it, you know like’ toward the end where he just trailed off and bit his lip. It had occurred to Quentin more than once that his professor might have agreed to the concept purely to get him out of his office.

And now—Quentin couldn’t write. He had a stack of ten books with color-coded Post-It Notes peeking out of each one. Blue for liminal spaces between the real world and lands of fantasy, pink for intertextual references to other works of fantasy literature, yellow for developmental moments in the protagonists’ character arcs, and green just to mark his favorite passages. He had a study-focus playlist, his recently renewed Adderall prescription, a steaming cup of camomile tea, and a stretched out hair tie to keep his now shoulder length locks from falling in his eyes. He should have been powering through his first draft, but instead, he was staring at a mostly blank computer screen, utterly frozen.

He drank some of the tea and redid his makeshift bun to sit at the base of his neck. He checked his email. Then Facebook. Reddit. He rocked back and forth in his desk chair and then pulled himself toward the bed and clumsily flopped onto it. He grabbed the book from the top of the pile — _A Wrinkle in Time_ — and cracked it open. It was worth reading a few chapters to get him in the right headspace. 

_It was a dark and stormy night._

“Ha,” Quentin said. “So good.” Like, no one else could use that purple-prose pulpy line and get away with it. He grabbed for a pencil, nearly falling out of bed. 

‘Research origins of this line,’ he wrote in the margin.

He flung the pencil back to the desk. It landed in his tea. He thought about getting up to get it, but he was down now, and Q tended to stay prone once he got into bed. Besides, the beginning of this book made him feel cozy and wrapped tight in something undefinable. He huddled under the covers.

_In her attic bedroom, Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Behind the trees, clouds scudded frantically across the sky. Every few moments, the moon ripped through them, creating wraithlike shadows that raced along the ground._

_The house shook._

_Wrapped in her quilt, Meg shook._

_She wasn’t usually afraid of weather. —It’s not just the weather, she thought. —It’s the weather on top of everything else. On top of me. On top of Meg Murry doing everything wrong._

That whole opening was. _Fuck_. It was so good. It tapped at something deep inside of him, the thing that kept breaking.

That was the whole, like, narrative point with _The Time Quartet, His Dark Materials, Fillory and Further, The Dark is Rising_ —all the books stacked on his desk. The writers, they took these kids who never fit anywhere and really dug into that feeling. They let their readers—children, all so vulnerable—know that it was ok to feel alone. It was okay not to fit in anywhere. It was okay to want to disappear into another world. Meanwhile, all the adults in their lives were trying to fit them in discrete little boxes, trying to make them conventional, quiet, and ordinary. 

That was it! He forced himself up and grabbed his laptop. He typed out his ideas as quickly as he could, sort of half-sitting up on his pillow—before the thought started to vanish—and it was good. Passable writing. A thesis that, well, wasn’t that original, maybe? But he could probably make it sound that way. He added a long quote for good measure. He slid the laptop back on the table. He could write more later.

His brain power was flickering by then, and he settled into his bed and tucked into reading Meg Murray’s story, relishing the prose and watching as she grew from misfit to hero. 

If only that kind of narrative arc were _real_.

It wasn’t, though. There were no real royal battles to fight or planets to set free. There was just this shitty room in a shitty apartment with his dick of a flatmate. Magic wasn’t real, and Q just needed to get through this year and the next before applying to PhD programs and getting on with his—let’s face it—pointless life.

He fell asleep with the book open over his chest.  
***  
It wasn’t a dream so much as a collection of physical sensations and the most fleeting of images. 

_The sound of rain on already wet leaves. The smell of bread baking in a wood stove, the fire cracking and popping, the sound of it layered just above the rain. The feel of old scraps of fabric hand-sewn into a soft, thick quilt that tangled around him and another body, all length and lean muscle, the insistent pressure of skin against skin, fingers tangling in his hair and _pulling_ ever so slightly. A sharp intake of breath. His breath. _

_The rustling of the blanket, the creaking of the rough-hewn bed, as comfort and release were sought and given._

_Whispers._

_‘You like that so much... that noise you make… driving me crazy…’_

_‘...so good to me... more...’_

_Laughter. The press of lips against his, the kiss lingering, slow and languid and full of wanting, like there was no rush, no need for hurry or frenzy._

_‘I should get the bread...’_

_‘Let it burn.’_

***

Quentin woke with a start, his cheeks and chest a feverish red, his phone buzzing beside him. He looked around, slightly embarrassed and more than like, slightly aroused. The dreams weren’t exactly new. On and off for years, always different. But they were in the same place and time, he thought. And with the same person. Maybe a few others in the regular cast of characters. But the same voice, deep and hushed and full of a lazy kind of arrogance. But there was gentleness, humor. A forest of complexities trapped in those low tones.

They were just dreams, though. No weight to them. 

There was a shiver along his spine. He looked around. But as always, he was alone. 

He picked up his phone. 

_I’m going out. You’re coming._

Quentin typed a reply: _No._

_Yes. You can’t trap yourself in your room forever. I’ll drag you out by your sad little nerd balls._

Quentin grumbled. _I’m processing a breakup and working on my project._ He paused and then added: _But I’m okay. Stop worrying._

 _Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not worried. But I’m here._ There was a knock at the door. _Put your panties on and get out here. Going 2 Max’s. Hot boys and girls. I will go w/ you and everyone will b jealous. You’re welcome._

Another knock.

“The fuck—I have a test tomorrow—it’s almost midnight—” The other guy who lived in the apartment—Quentin wouldn’t call him a friend or even an acquaintance—was already yelling. Like it was the end of the world that there was someone at the door. And worse, it was for Quentin. 

Quentin groaned and more or less tumbled out of bed, hitting his head on his desk. 

“Get the door, loser—I am not getting up.”

“Fuck. Ouch. Ouch. Fuck—hold on—”

There was another knock. 

“Fucking get the door. One of your LARPing cosplay Game of Thrones people is here to see you.”

Quentin stumbled across his room and out into the tiny living area, where his roommate was eating a bagel, angrily, and reading a textbook, also angrily. He made no acknowledgement of Quentin. 

When Quentin opened the door, his one friend at NYU was standing there, looking at him impatiently. She was the type of person who never would have been friends with him in high school. Or college. Or anywhere? He still didn’t understand what had happened. But Margo Hanson happened _to_ you, he figured, and he wasn’t going to ask the universe any big questions about it. It might have had something to do with the fact that she was a secret book nerd, and they’d talked about Fillory in the campus bookshop for over an hour the first week of graduate school. In a way, Penny was right. His nerd friend was here to get him. She just didn’t look or act anything like an actual nerd.

“Ok. What am I seeing here? And why is it so sad?” She appraised him, hand on one hip. Regal and elegant, she was wearing a gauzy purple shirt, loose at the shoulders and tight at her waist, with skin-tight black satin leggings and boots. 

Quentin was wearing a worn out Fillory and Further t-shirt with plaid pajama bottoms. He was still wearing his hair in a bun, but the bun was more of a bedhead bun now, not a study-bun. “‘Hi Quentin, nice to see you. I’m saying things a normal friend would say to you after going through a breakup and finding out your dad has cancer.’”

“Hi Quentin. Normal friend isn’t here. This is Margo. You need to tit the fuck up and put on some clothes that are not that because Mama needs a drink. I can’t tell you how much I hate these fashion people. I got paired with one of them for the fashion week thing, and I cannot express to you how fucked up the whole thing is. I need you. Out. Now. Out of your nerd stuff.”

That might have sounded sexy coming from another girl, but from Margo, it just sounded like what was going to happen now. 

“Why me?” Quentin sighed. “I really don’t want to go anywhere. And I don’t understand why you drag me places.”

“Because you’re a sweet, lost puppy and I can’t help myself. And the people in the fashion classes and the MBA program are all psychos, losers, or complete and total pieces of shit.”

“And I’m not any one of those things?”

“Mm. Well, no comment, exactly. But you aren’t all three. And when you’re with me, you’re not any of them. So get that one black sweater on and a pair of jeans that fit you. You have a pair of those, don’t you?”

“Do I?” 

“How is that a question you can’t answer?” Margo took Quentin’s arm and dragged him back to his room, barging in and rummaging through his drawers like she lived there. “Here. These are acceptable.” She threw him a pair of Levi’s that he thought were way too tight. “And this.” She tossed him the black sweater that Alice had gotten him a few months back. 

“I don’t want to wear this, Margo.”

“Nut up, Buttercup. I’m not letting you ditch your one nice sweater because it gets you all in your fee-fees. Get dressed.”

At this point, he knew better than to argue. He put on the sweater and the jeans.  
***  
“Well this place is full of stuck-up shits and pretentious dickholes.”

Quentin looked at Margo. He had a beer, but he didn’t like beer. He had just ordered one out of panic. “Um. How do you tell the difference?”

Margo pointed. “MBA students. Overachieving, 4.2 GPA Ivy League degree touting—no offense—old money, milquetoast, less personality than Laura Bush at a children’s library between the lot of them. They’re like 80% shits. With just a few entitled assholes clinging on around the edges.”

Quentin nodded. He took a sip of beer and cringed. “Poetry,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, I know.” She gestured to another group of students who looked a lot more like Margo—put together, edgy, and expensive. “Fashion students. Pretentious in an entirely different way. They all think they’re misunderstood geniuses, but they’re derivative hacks for the most part. Some of them have a modicum of talent, but most of them will end up sucking dick at Marie Claire just to dress some D-list non-celebrity for a seasonal fashion spread people will only flip through in doctor’s offices.”

“That’s like a monologue from ‘Mean Girls.’”

“Well, that movie is a fucking classic. For the record, I’m no Regina. I was bullied as fuck in high school. I had to quit.”

“Um. That sucks. So much.”

“Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.”

“Always.”

“Since then, it helps me to put people into categories. Like would fuck, wouldn’t fuck. Shitty people, not so shitty people. Helps me avoid getting fucked over.” Margo signaled the bartender to bring her another drink. And he did. Margo commanded, and people fell the fuck in line. It was impressive and kind of scary. He couldn’t imagine anyone bullying her. 

“What about that guy?” Quentin pointed at a lanky blond guy. 

“Art major. Very into himself, I’m guessing. Paint splattered jeans. Never a good sign. Definitely a pretentious dickhole.”

“He’s um. He’s cute.” Quentin took another sip of beer, trying to look nonchalant. It was bitter.

“You like ‘em tall. Duly noted, Coldwater. I’ll get your virgin ass laid; you just wait.”

“Jesus Christ. I am not a virgin.” 

Margo laughed. “Relax. What about that guy?” She pointed to a sort of cute-ish guy with red hair and glasses. 

“Percy Weasley? No thanks. And um. I like girls also?” 

“Is that a question?”

“No. It’s not?” Quentin cringed at himself. “I mean, I’ve mostly, like mostly exclusively, dated girls. But I’m bi?”

“Jesus, say it like it’s an actual statement, not like you’re looking for someone to notarize your sexuality.”

Quentin tilted his head and drank another sip. It left foam bubbles on his lips. “I’m not. I just. You know. I don’t know if I need a rebound or anything... if that’s what you think.”

“Settle down, puppy. We’re just out in the actual world looking at actual people. You haven’t left your apartment in two weeks—”

“I have too left my apartment.”

“Getting sandwiches and going to class does not count as leaving your apartment.” Margo ruffled her hair and grabbed Quentin’s hand, dragging him up to a couple of empty seats at the bar. “And you do need a rebound. Preferably a guy so he can fuck the Alice Quinn right out of you.”

Quentin panicked and chugged the rest of the beer, his chest and cheeks flushing deep red. His throat burned; his eyes watered. It was a look Margo would call “not at all cute.” 

“He’ll have one of your signature cocktails. An Aviation.” She signaled the bartender. “Pronto.”

The guy delivered it almost immediately, handing Quentin a very purple drink with a cherry at the bottom. “I—ah—what’s this?”

“Something better than a pale ale. Two of them will get you completely hammered. Three, and you won’t remember your own name.”

“That doesn’t sound—that doesn’t sound safe.”

“I’ve got you, puppy. You’ll be okay. Drink up.” 

At that same moment, a like, splendidly tall guy walked in. He sauntered over to the fashion students and acted a bit like he was holding court. His hair was curly and dark and kind of messy and kind of also coifed, and Quentin couldn’t really tell what color they were, but his eyes looked… intense. Ringed with a silvery eyeshadow and black kohl. Something tightened in Quentin’s chest, dark and wanting. It wasn’t a feeling he really got very often. Or ever. 

“What um—what about—that guy?”

Margo gave Quentin a stern look. “He’s very pretty. You like the pretty, tall ones? With the guy-liner? Like to get tossed around in the sack?”

Quentin nodded absently, still watching the guy in his impeccable button-down shirt. His legs were long. “Hm.”

“Not that he couldn’t fuck you until you stopped breathing, but I’d highly recommend staying very the fuck far away.”

“Why? Who is he? Pretentious shit or—what?”

“That’s Eliot Waugh. He’s one of the only talented ones in that whole fashion MFA program. He’s really, really talented, actually. He just doesn’t make any real effort. He’d rather get wasted or high, show off, gather all the fakers and make them adore him for an evening.”

“Sounds like—like you know him. Um. Knew him.”

“I kinda did. First year. Thought we’d be friends.” Margo paused, sipped her drink, and looked shrewdly at the guy. He was still talking to some of the other fashion students, clearly putting on a show. They were fawning over him. “I don’t normally get this serious when I’m out trying to get dick for my friend. But I’ll tell you. He’s fundamentally fucking broken. Something just isn’t there.”

“So I’m your friend?”

“Let’s go with that, Q.” She smoothed Quentin’s hair, tucked a bit of it behind his ear. He didn’t normally like that kind of thing outside of like, a girlfriend—or Julia. But he didn’t mind. Margo felt safe.

“So, that’s a, um. Definite no. I am not at all interested.” 

“He’s a complete disaster, Q. He’d eat you alive.”


	8. Nothing in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up doesn't go quite as well as Eliot had planned. He's going to need to do some serious mending. 
> 
> Whatever will happen when he finally meets his Q?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references to drug and alcohol abuse (it's Eliot), overdosing, death, illness, trauma, amnesia, scary hedge bitches

~Eliot~

The floor was cold beneath his body. 

_I love you, but you have to know… that’s not me, and that’s definitely not you, not when we have a choice._

Something stopped ticking. Crushing pressure. And then.

It was like swimming in blackness, in a world between worlds. There was no time and no space, just… nothing. He floated, all the pain and sickness and grief and rage drawn out of his body. Just as the sensation—or really, the lack of sensation—had started to evaporate, his senses began to return, slow and hazy and incredibly unpleasant. 

His head buzzed. Shocks ran through the course of his body like little bits of lightning. He felt himself moving, jerking, hips arched and head hitting the cold of the floor, again and again.

“Eliot, you better get the fuck out of there or I’m breaking down the goddamn door, you worthless piece of—” A woman’s words cut off, her voice caustic and piercing. Her yelling turned into background noise.

His head pounded, but he couldn’t tell if it was just the rattling fucking relentless knocking at the door keeping time with his short-circuiting brain. The smell of blood. The slick feel of it against the back of his head.

A deep, animal groan built inside of him, pushing it’s way out, all anguish as the pain in his body intensified. 

Where was he? Wasn’t he supposed to be making breakfast this morning? He was going to go for a walk. To go somewhere. With the girls. What girls? The thought was vague and ill-formed. Who was he going to walk with? 

_There might be some side effects. We don’t really know what._ A young woman’s voice. _There aren’t good records of this kind of magic. The enchantment itself is solid, but we don’t know what it will do to you. Mom never really considered all the things that could go wrong. She said you’d figure it out. Have you thought this through?_

_I’ve lived with that box for five years. I’ve thought it through._

_… not sure what will happen. We don’t have access to the world like we did before the spell._

_… keep my memories? The ones from this life?_

_Maybe._

Eliot coughed. Everything was black. He was choking, throat closing, coughing blood. He tried to moan again, to cry out.

“Jesus Christ, you waste of fucking space. Your shift is starting, like _now_ , and I need to get the fuck out back home or my girlfriend is going to kick my ass.” There was more pounding on the door. “I’m getting the key—I don’t give a fuck if you’re jerking it or plowing some random—”

Steps walking away. Eliot blacked out again.  
***  
_He remembered the feeling of the man next to him, skin old and soft, his hair so long. They’d shared a bed for so many years. So long. It had taken years to let him in, really let him in, but he finally had. Now there was no distance between them. The arguments came and went, but their life was beautiful._

 _He had pieces of it still. Beautiful pieces. Even if he was gone._  
***  
His right cheek stung. He groaned. “Fuck, what the fucking fuck,” he mumbled. The words came out in a garble.

“Snap out of it Eliot.” The person with the voice whacked him hard in the side. “You—fuck—you didn’t have a pulse—Jesus fucking tap-dancing Christ—how _stupid_ are you?”

If he had to guess, he thought hazily, it was probably pretty fucking stupid. As he waded toward the light, he knew he’d been reckless, irresponsible, foolish. (Always a good guess.) He was drunk, very drunk. High on _something_ or several things. Most likely several things. He couldn’t believe he’d done that again. Well, he could. 

“Unnnnngh,” he groaned. “Wha time is it?”

“It’s one. You’re needed behind the bar. But considering that you just fucking _died_ and—I don’t know—came back to fucking life, I think you need to go home.”

“I’ll go work—I need the money—” The words felt harsh and involuntary in his mind, cutting through the haze of his strange, mixed memories. 

_How did he get here? Where was he?_

“Fuck that. I’m telling Carl you started vomiting in the bathroom and I have to take you home since I might start shitting myself. That should work. He has a pathological fear of stomach viruses and somehow doesn’t realize your a fucking addict.”

“Take me home, Bambi,” he said, turning his head toward the woman’s voice. 

She smacked his other cheek, harder this time. “I’m not a Disney deer orphan, bitch. I’m your manager, and I should get you goddamn fired for this.”

He raised a hand to cover the sting of his cheek. “Ow.” His head was wobbling and the pain started to soar, but he forced his eyes open. He was met with a pair of piercing blue eyes and a tangle of dark hair, red at the edges. “Marlina?”

“It’s Marina, you complete _ass_. We’ve been working together for three months.”

“Shorry,” he mumbled. “My head hurths.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a thing, too. Someone clocked you pretty bad. You should go to the hospital, you know.” 

“No insurance—no—” The words tumbled out, the taste of them strange on his lips. “Take me home.”

“You’re twice my size, dummy. You need to be able to stand up, or I am in fact planning on calling someone to carry your ass to urgent care. You probably have a concussion. And oh yeah. You _died_.”

“I can stand. I can’t—I can’t go to the doctor—” he heard himself say. Slowly, he pulled up on the door handle, with some help from the diminutive woman. “I’m Eliot Waugh,” he said, more firmly. “I can shake this off. Just walk me home, will you?”

“There’s your self-importance. I was getting worried.” Marina looked up at him coldly, but she was still holding onto his arm. There was a flutter of panic when he looked at her, but he didn’t quite know where it came from. 

“The shit I put up with. You and your fucking death wish.” She pulled him out of the bathroom and sat him down in a folding metal chair by the back door of a skeevy-looking bar. The thump of club music whomped deep in his bones, making his gut churn uncomfortably. He closed his eyes and listened as Marina shouted at what he guessed was their boss. Made sense. Once he had finally gotten to New York when he was seventeen, he’d always worked at a bar. Some kind of bar; some of them were more legal than others. He had danced. He made drinks. He got tips. That memory felt _right_. He graduated from high school early. He went to SUNY Purchase. He studied art and design. He was a grad student at the Fashion Institute of Technology and got roped into a business class at NYU.

There were other memories that felt just as real. But they were… insane. A whole life. Another universe. Another story. Like something out of a book. That wasn’t real. This piss-smelling bar, the caustic woman dragging him by his arm, the cold of the bathroom floor—that was real.

He was Eliot Waugh. He was twenty-six years old. He grew up in Indiana. His father was an abusive piece of shit. He studied art at college. If he didn’t succeed in killing himself with drugs in the next few years, he wanted to be a fashion designer. A good one.

The other stuff—the magic things and the castle and the talking animals and the Beast and the Monster—not true. It was all the side effect of whatever had shut his body and brain down. 

_(But what had turned it back on?)_

Strobe lights flickered from somewhere, and the bursts of light hurt his head, even though his eyes were firmly shut. 

There were flashes of Marina walking him to his apartment two blocks away, shoving him in bed and making him drink something that was—warm—warming. It cleared his head and opened something aching in his chest, and the thoughts and the life that were all sitting there at the tip of his mind threatened to tumble out. 

She moved him to lie on his side and watched him curiously for a few moments, like she was studying him. He tried to close his eyes. 

She snapped her fingers at him. “No, no closing your eyes for—” She checked her phone. “Two hours. At least. That’s just a guess. Better than passing back out.”

“Please let me sleep.” 

“No. Eat this.” She shoved a cup of saltine crackers in his face. “And drink this.”

He looked down at a bottle of Gatorade. Gross. Why did he have this? “You already made me drink something. I don’t want it. I’m so—” His stomach cramped in protest. 

“Tough shit. I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a friend. And I’m your nurse tonight whether you like it or not.” 

“Why don’t you just go home? To your girlfriend. I’m a promise to you, my nurse, that I’ll will keep my eyes opening.”

Marina laughed. “Did you hear yourself? No. My girl will live to bitch another day. I’m here tonight.”

“We’re not friends. You keep saying we aren’t.”

“You’re useful. And you’re a good bartender before you hit drink six of the night.” She paused, hands on hips. It looked like there might be two of her. If he closed an eye, she went back to one Marina. “And, look, you monumental dips hit, I’m not going to let you die.”

Marina made him talk. She grilled him about what happened—he didn’t remember; maybe he’d overdosed or maybe he got beaten up, seemed like maybe both—and she kept asking him what was happening in his head, like it was some fascinating point of interest. He told her some of the fleeting things he thought he remembered and how none of it matched with this world, the real world. The one where he was a bartender. He thought he had amnesia. She didn’t acknowledge that—just kept pestering him. Who did he think Bambi was? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. Someone he used to know. A friend. She kept grilling him until he passed out, unable to hold his eyes open. 

“Close enough,” he thought he heard her say. “You’ll be okay. I think.” 

His last emotion that night was surprise as he heard her settle down on his sofa, the soft pinging of her phone going off in the dark. He sank deep into the comfort of the pictures his brain supplied. There was a pretty boy that wanted him, that Eliot wanted back. He had loved him, he thought, for a very long time. That wasn’t a very Eliot _thing_ , but it was a nice dream. And he didn’t have many of those.


	9. Open My Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q meets Eliot. Eliot meets Q. It's a meet cute. Margo is displeased. Eliot is a flirt. And still a little confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references to depression, overdose. More of that coming, but we know these boys have their monsters, right?

Open My Eyes  
~Quentin~

 **Margo** : Get here now dickwad. Bored of all the coffee shop hipsters.

 **Quentin** : working on project. alone.

 **Margo** : U R pathologically fucking isolated. Not good for the complexion. 

**Quentin** : I have a lovely complexion TYVM

 **Margo** : Do not use abbreviations on me

 **Quentin** : You did

 **Margo** : I do what I want I have every right

 **Quentin** : …. what?

 **Margo** : It is 3 blocks u will not melt if u step outside of your recycled air cave

 **Quentin** : You’re supposed to be working on your project

 **Margo** : Not when my partner will not show up. Fucking dick lick sad sack waste of breath already rescheduled 1 time. now he’s a no show. need coffee and sum1 to make fun of hipsters. 

**Quentin** : I. Am. Working.

 **Margo** : Bring. Your. Laptop. Put. On. A. Shirt. And. Tit. The. Fuck. Up. Jesus. Christ. It’s. Just. Coffee. You. Can. Work. Here. You. Old. Man. With. Agoraphobia. 

**Quentin** : Fuck. Fine.

Quentin groaned. He had strong suspicions that Margo, despite her repeated assurance that she didn’t give a shit about his sad little Q feelings, was trying to get him out of his apartment. Which was, well, fine, he guessed. He had another strong, yet unproven, suspicion that when Julia had visited two weekends ago, she’d appointed Margo as his keeper. He’d thought they might clash, but it was weird how well they got along, like they were functioning on the same intensity wavelength. 

Since he’d only typed about another paragraph (in like, the past four hours) on what was supposed to be the biggest project of the first year Comparative Lit Program and the precursor for his thesis, Quentin figured he could use a change of scenery, Margo’s bossiness be damned. Plus, he did need coffee. And Margo was really the best at making jabs at hipsters. He dicked around his room for a few minutes, shuffling through books and piles of clothes. He wondered what irked Margo so much about the other student she was supposed to meet. She could easily take over the whole thing—she didn’t know how to sew, so she might need help with that whole thing.

He pulled on his only other sweater—navy blue with a crew-neck collar—and skinny khakis with his boots. At this point, he’d just rather not have Margo eviscerate him for looking like a “hobo train wreck,” so he was starting, slowly, to wear a few of the things she’d deemed more flattering. He knew he was kind of her pet project in that way, but he didn’t really mind. However biting or sarcastic—or like, violently threatening—her comments were, she had good intentions when it came to her friends. And Quentin was at least sixty percent sure that he was her _only_ friend at NYU, which was weird and kinda also not so weird since she was terrifying. He peeked around the corner of his door, and thankfully, Penny was nowhere in sight. 

It was a gray and listless winter afternoon, the kind that made him want to crawl back in his bed and hide under the covers and just not think about anything, like draw a complete blank, and get lost in his destructive, stare-at-the-wall type of feelings. It was good to get out even if he didn’t want to move, even if the weather was that kind of humid cold that soaked into his bones and the whole gray facade of the city made things seem a thousand times more miserable and hopeless. 

His breath plumed out in the cold before him as he power-walked toward the coffee shop where they usually met. There was a cute barista there that they both enjoyed talking about (‘cute, but probably dumb,’ ‘has a big dick, probably doesn’t give good head,’ et cetera). He always spelled Margo’s name “MARGOT’ in big letters on her drink, which always pissed her off to no end. He even heard her spelling it out for him one time (‘there’s no T in my name, you absolute fucking moron’). Quentin smiled and opened the door to his only safe haven apart from his room and the study cubicles at the the NYU library.

Well, it had been safe. Up until the second he walked in and saw a long, lanky body occupying the velvety pink chair by the window that was Quentin’s favorite. Margo was sitting across from him, looking angrier than usual. Quentin guessed her partner had arrived some time after her string of annoying texts. 

And then. It was him. The Guy—the Capital G _Guy_ Quentin had spotted two nights ago at the bar. The one Margo had said would “eat him alive.” She’d said some other things, too, that Quentin had a hard time forgetting. 

_Jesus. Fuck._

Margo hadn’t really noticed that Quentin had continued watching The Guy that night, whatever she’d said his name was. And the rest of the time they were at the bar, she’d likely zipped away the fact that Quentin had even asked about him. And she probably hadn’t remembered—but possibly did?—that he’d maybe said he was cute—maybe he’d said _fucking hot_ , but he didn’t remember, he was a little drunk—on the way home that night. Or that he’d asked a few times why she hated him so much, and he kept asking until she snapped at him. She probably remembered that, he guessed. 

_‘Because he’s the literal, actual worst. That’s why I hate him. No more questions.’_

When Quentin went to order coffee, he noted that both of them looked miserable. The guy was all stretched out, knees butting up against the table, lazily flipping through images on an iPad. His hair was all dark-brown-almost-black glossy ringlets and waves, his eyes—this time Quentin could see—were a green and brown hazel color set beneath the smudge of long lashes. He was wearing dark trousers rolled at the cuff, black laced-up boots peering from beneath, a deep, emerald green button-down beneath a black waistcoat with, like, a _tie_ —more formal for the coffee shop than he had been at the bar. And somehow he was pulling it off like he absolutely didn’t give a fuck how good he looked. (He looked like, really, really good.) The tie was slightly—artfully—loose around his neck, waistcoat casually unbuttoned. How was it legal to go around looking like _that_?

_Fuck._

When Quentin picked up his vanilla latte and butterscotch scone, he just sort of… stood there. He looked at Margo. And then the guy. Okay he, _did_ remember the guy’s name. It was _Eliot_. Like that wasn’t a hot name. God. Okay. He needed to sit down. He felt splotches of red rising in his cheeks.

He cleared his throat. Margo didn’t look up. “Margo—” He almost shouted, not walking any closer because he didn’t know if he could. “I’m here—I’m going to—um, set up my computer and like, work over here—where there’s a plug. An outlet. You know.” Quentin gestured with his butterscotch scone to one of the tables on the other side of the room. She didn’t see him.

“There are outlets here, you cock,” Margo said without looking up. 

“Charming as always. Such a way with words,” the guy— _Eliot_ —drawled. He looked up briefly from his tablet and caught Quentin’s eye. He was wearing dark—like maybe dark gray—eyeliner. It looked really goddamn hot. Christ, that eyeliner was going to drive him over the edge of insanity.

Something flickered over Eliot’s expression. Recognition? No. They hadn’t met. Right. “Who’s this?”

“My friend. Ever heard of one?” Margo sighed, thwacking her notes down on the table in front of her supposed sad-sack-waste-of-breath project partner in exasperation. “Probably not. Since you’re a miserable, soul-sucking—”

“I am not. I’m fun.” Eliot’s eyes were fixed on Quentin, who sort of felt like melting into the floor. “Does your friend have a name?”

“Quentin, get your ass over here,” Margo huffed. “Maybe you’ll infuse us with some creative nerd energy and I can think something up rather than winging it at the absolute last second with Mr. Fun over here. We’re two weeks behind.”

“Quen-tin,” he said, as if tasting the name, completely ignoring Margo. His eyes flicked up and down, taking in the whole of Quentin, the man who didn’t really feel much like a man, more a boy. Quentin, the grad student in the rumpled khakis, with his sugary coffee drink and his fucking— _cookie_ —because that’s basically what a scone was. A big, dry cookie. Eliot’s eyes were trained firmly on him. “I’m Eliot.”

“Um. Hi.” Quentin thought he might—he didn’t know—have a heart attack. But that was dramatic. He was being dramatic. His stomach dropped. 

“Sit. Now. Talk later,” Margo instructed. 

Quentin shuffled over to the cramped table next to Margo and put his stuff down, spilling a bit of his coffee in the process and almost dropping his scone on the floor. He thought he could feel Eliot watching him as he set up and started nervously typing, but that was… just… it wasn’t. It wasn’t wishful thinking because, _no_. And it wasn’t reality because— _also no_. One thing was for sure, he was getting a lot of mindless, nervous typing done, and he wasn’t exactly sure what he was typing. It was probably all shit, but it was words. 

Margo was rattling off the outline of the project to Eliot. “Ten looks, a design focus, plan for a line and—runway show. Eight weeks. And we should have started a week ago. A whole show. Bragging rights if we win. And you’ve done—“

“I have a few things sketched up.”

“A few things you turned in for your other classes? Or—like actual new ideas we can use? Because I know how to dress like a fabulous bitch, but I’m not the artistic component of this team. Fucking such as it is.”

Eliot sighed. “I told you. I got sick and fell—hit my head—this week. It’s been a... really weird few days.”

“You got sick _and_ you fell? Were you high? Wait, don’t answer that. I’m guessing it’s a resounding yes.” Margo’s voice was full of vitriol. Her words were always _biting_ , but this was very, very _pointed_.

“Yes. I probably had a concussion. Have? I don’t know. It was fucked up. My… coworker took care of me. Things have been a little… different. I have some amnesia. I think.” As the words tumbled out, his voice took on raw edge, different from the way he’d archly said Quentin’s name. “My thoughts are all—jumbled up.”

“You should, um, probably see a doctor,” Quentin said. 

“No insurance. Not a big deal. I’ll be fine.” Eliot readjusted his tie and scooted back in the chair. 

“No, but, um, you probably should check in with like, a nurse practitioner, at least. Like you need to rest a lot and—and you shouldn’t be looking at any screens.”

Eliot focused his gaze on Quentin, which made Quentin feel stomach-droppingly squirmy and like, also, _seen_. 

“What should I be looking at, Quentin?” A small smile quirked at the corner of Eliot’s lips, and his eyes were—well, shit. _Locked_ on him.

A splotchy flush rose over Quentin’s chest and up into his cheeks. Eliot had a cigarette tucked behind one ear, which was _hot_. Why was it so… fucking… he didn’t know. Obviously, this guy was a dick. Or he’d been a dick to Margo at one point, so same difference, even if he had, like, really intense eyes and—broad shoulders—

“Mr. _Days of Our Lives_ is just fine, like he said. He’s been through worse,” Margo said, sounding bored and looking through her notes.

A quick rush of emotion flashed over Eliot’s features. Annoyance, but something deeper than that, too. Regret? “’Tis true. I’m perfectly fine. Just… fuzzy around the edges. Sharpening up beautifully in time for this amazingly important project.”

“You’ve got a bad track record with this shit, Waugh. So we’re going to move right on along to the issue at hand, which is not just passing this class but getting a goddamn A-plus. Because that is what I do. And I’m intent on making everyone else in this class look like asswipes. You may hate me—”

“I don’t,” Eliot said softly. 

Quentin was no longer typing. He watched the pain of those words ripple over Margo’s face. Just as quickly as the emotion appeared, it was gone. “So, we’re moving along, _Eliot._. You’re going to come up with something brilliant. I’m going to put together a business plan for the whole concept. And we’re going to have the top names in this business knocking on my door—” 

“So we should shove down all human emotion and make this thing happen? I’m decent with that course of action.”

Eliot shrugged.

Quentin buried himself in his project again, occasionally catching snippets of their creative negotiations. 

“... 80s vibe? Like 9 to 5 vibes? Big shoulder pads. Power bitches.” 

“Ew no,” Margo replied. 

There was more arguing, but their conversation settled into what the distant observer might call banter but what Quentin would call _tense as fuck._.

“I call this collection Big Dick Energy.” 

Quentin poked his head up over the laptop screen to see Eliot showing Margo a collection of sketches on his iPad. He flicked through them one by one while Margo watched with a half-bored, half-irritated expression. Lots of waistcoats. Skinny jeans. Cuffed trousers. Elegant suspenders. Tailored jackets. Striped ties. Quentin thought that if this had been one of Eliot’s assignments at FIT, it was the precise equivalent of Quentin handing in a half-assed paper on _Fillory and Further._

“You just drew own goddamn self fifty times.” Margo paused a beat. “I’d just call that one ‘Malignant Narcissism.’” 

Eliot actually cracked a grin. “Not as factual as the other title.”

Margo snorted, and Quentin—had that comment been intended for him? It couldn’t be but he like, looked this way, _holy shit_ —turned eight shades of red, like way redder than before, and sank as far down in the creaky coffee shop chair as he could. He pulled out his bun and let his hair fall in front of his face, pretending to be very interested in one of the books that he’d tucked into his laptop bag.

“Okay Captain BDE, any other beefy ideas?”

“Hm. Royalty?”

“It’s been done before, Billie Porter,” Margo retorted. 

“Hm. Not like I’m thinking. I promise. Not cheesy, but high fashion. Very out there. I think it would vibe with like an glam rock thing.”

Margo perked up. “You got any mock-ups?”

“Not yet. Just an idea. But.” Quentin looked up and saw Eliot focused on Margo, his body language tightening in from that I-don’t-give-a-fuck vibe. “I can guarantee it’s going to be dazzling as fuck and you’ll have Ralph Lauren begging to suck your dick.”

Margo raised an eyebrow. “He’s already been begging to suck my dick.” 

“I guess it’s moot then. I’ll totally throw it all out, lock it away in my brain—”

“Fine. Get the mock-ups done and meet me here _on time_ the day after tomorrow.” She sighed. “Look, we can kill this thing. You’ve just got to show the fuck up for it, okay?”

Eliot nodded. “Okay.” 

Margo checked her phone, dark red nails clicking against the glass. “I’ve got to go to class. Since you were _an hour_ late.” Her voice sounded less pressed as she gathered up her things to leave. Like getting this over with was some kind of relief.

“Q, don’t you have class?” 

“It’s Tuesday. No classes. I’m going to work here for a while,” he said absently. A shadow crossed his field of vision, and there was Margo with hands on her hips, glaring at him. 

“Then walk me to class. I’m a weak, defenseless woman. I might stumble into a sewer or drop all of my tampons.” Behind her, Eliot was looking at him. Again. It was. _Something._

“I was just going, too. We’ll leave your friend here to do his Narnia… thing.” 

Quentin looked down at the book in his hand. “It’s not—the—that. It’s not Narnia, actually.” 

Margo groaned. “Fine. I’ll see you tonight.” 

“I’ll be working.” 

“I’m going to come work with you.”

“No.” 

“I’ll bring pizza. And I’ll scare Penny off.” 

“In that case…” Quentin shrugged. He looked quickly to the pink chair where Eliot had been sitting. He was gone, and Quentin’s stomach fell. 

“Hey. That’s a big no,” Margo said.

“What?” 

“Quentin.”

“Margo.”

“Trouble. Big. Dick. Energy. Aside.”

Quentin swallowed hard. “I wasn’t—I mean—”

“I have eyes. And I could feel the heat radiating from your general vicinity. I didn’t know you liked the fucked up variety.”

“I don’t—I just—”

“Oh, he’s cute. I’ll give you that. But stay. Away.”

“Okay, okay, okay—I am an adult human man—and I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, puppy. But you don’t need to handle someone like that while you’re figuring your shit out.” She huffed. “Okay, that was exhausting. I’ve gotta go.” She kissed Quentin on the head and headed out the door, bell jingling behind her. 

Quentin sat back and checked his phone, and he saw two texts from Margo, sent just before he arrived. 

**Margo** : Nvm partner actually showed. U can meet me later

 **Margo** : Q? I will see you later

Quentin groaned. His one friend here seemed like she wouldn’t be like—well, like Julia. Quentin could make up his own goddamned mind. He didn’t need advice from anyone on who he liked, not that he liked that Guy. Eliot. Besides, he hadn’t even noticed Quentin.

The chair opposite Quentin scraped across the coffee shop floor. Eliot was looking at him, and he was about a thousand feet closer to Quentin now. He reached over and broke off a piece of Quentin’s butterscotch scone. 

“I swear I’ve met you before.”

“I... think I’d remember. Meeting you.” 

“You definitely would.” 

Quentin laughed, attempting to act cool. He was certain he was still beet red. “Wow. High opinion of yourself?”

“No more than warranted.” A small grin. “And I’d remember you, too.”

 _Jesus. He was flirting with Quentin. Wasn’t he? Was he?_

Quentin settled on taking a cool and collected approach: shutting his laptop forcefully enough that it rattled the table and staring at Eliot. “I—um.” 

“You just seem... familiar.” His voice was smooth around the edges, light and teasing. And he smiled—not insincere or wolffish, but genuine, kind. He took a bite of the scone and chewed it thoughtfully. “I make better scones. This is a poor excuse for a baked good.”

“You bake?” Quentin asked, like this was a perfectly normal conversation and everything was perfectly normal. Because it definitely was.

“One of my many frivolous pastimes.” Eliot smiled again and took the cigarette from behind his ear, tapping it lightly against his long fingers. “I’m told I should be doing important things. I’d usually really rather not.”

“I guess that’s what we all get told at like this, this transitional time. At least you’re making something.”

“Pastries. Drinks. Breakfast foods. Mistakes. Messes. I make quite a lot of things.”

Quentin smiled. “Design, I mean. Margo says you’re, um, really talented.”

“I was, I think. I’ve fucked up quite grandly since I started grad school. I could use a do-over. Too late for that.”

“Not so late. Seems like you have good ideas. Just need to like, put them together. Make an impression. Keep Margo happy.”

Eliot seemed to consider that as he tap-tap-tapped his cigarette. “I just quit smoking.”

“I can see you’re not thinking about it at all.”

Eliot smiled again, and Quentin’s legs felt weak even though he was very much sitting down. 

“Walk with me. Keep me company. Then maybe I could make you a drink?”

_Oh my God._

Eliot raised an eyebrow and cocked his head toward the door in what appeared to be a _Shall we?_ gesture.

Quentin’s throat went dry. “Ok, look, I’m not—“

“Oh. I guess I read that wrong.” He shrugged, and maybe he looked—disappointed. “Maybe you just want to walk me to urgent care to see a nurse practitioner?”

“No—I mean—I don’t think you did read anything wrong—I just was going to say—I’m not that interesting. And it’s... you didn’t, and yes?” Quentin stopped because there just weren’t any more words. They didn’t exist. All the air had been forced out of him.

“You’re really cute. And I know you’re... interesting.” He gave Quentin a thousand watt smile. “I’m harmless, by the way. I don’t know what she told you...”

“Definitely the opposite of what you just said.”

“I don’t even know what I did, you know.” He looked so—vulnerable. Not at all the same person Quentin had seen at the bar. A crack in the exterior of the person who’d been flirting with him moments ago. He tapped his cigarette against his palm. “Wanna go?” 

“Mm.” He nodded. 

He knew Margo was probably—definitely—right. But Quentin Coldwater decided he didn’t really give a fuck.

He knew he was chasing trouble. But he felt—so sparkly. So fucking good.

He followed Eliot out the door and into the cool, misty air.

Eliot cupped his hand over the cigarette and lit it as they walked.


	10. And We Kissed As The Sky Fell In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot has had a weird week. Quentin seems like the only viable solution. Quentin can’t argue with that. And... maybe it’s a little magical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Talk about drugs, overdosing, anxiety, depression, the usual. References to Eliot's dad being a ludicrously homophobic piece of fucking shit.

Eliot had seen enough of _The Young and the Restless_ to really have a good grasp on the whole amnesia process. Or like, the theatrical grip he needed during this trying time. He’d certainly stayed home “sick” from elementary school often enough—days when just his mom was in the house, when he could convince her he was coming down with something and _of course_ he’d make up all of his schoolwork. On those days, he had no brothers to pester him. No fucking psychotically abusive father who, even then, called him a _little queer, a fucking fairy_.

Honestly, she’d been the best of them. Not that she wasn’t hyper-Christian and obsessed with the lecherous temptations of Satan (if only she knew Eliot now), but she loved her soap operas. Though replete with the temptations of Satan, soap operas were sacrosanct between Eliot and his mother on sick days. He’d eat bright green ice pops and drink Gatorade, and she’d pull a blanket over him on the couch while he dreamed of joining the cast of _General Hospital_ and maybe having one of those devastating, earth-shattering romances that changed everything in his world. And the plot devices were clutch. Eliot fucking lived for it—evil twins, fake marriages, mortal enemies falling in love, family members returned from the dead. 

Right now, his life felt like a soap opera plot device, and he was waxing poetic—internally—on the scraps of kindness his mother doled out in small, measured increments. How he’d melted into the small joy of someone caring for him just as he was, in a house quiet save for the swelling music and hushed dialogue on _The Young and the Restless._

He took a long drag on the cigarette. The smoke curled around him like a cloud, a cloak. 

“So when you fell, you said you had some memory loss?” The cute boy walking next to him was all knitted brows and gentle concern. A strange thing considering he was ostensibly following Eliot to... what? Fuck him? Talk? Have a drink? Honestly, Eliot didn’t have an exact plan. He’d just needed to get the fuck away from that coffee shop, where the world had threatened to tip on its side and leave him unmoored, broken in front of everyone. Taking Quentin with him had felt... essential on this very strange day. He had picked up plenty of guys before but... he wouldn't puzzle this out. He was pretty, so pretty. Comforting. Comfortable.

"Yeah. Amnesia. It's really nothing. I just feel like a... fan favorite soap opera star." Eliot tried to grin like it was all no big deal, like the world wasn't breaking.

The amnesia thing. That’s the only word he had. It was a safe and reassuring word. People knew what you meant when you said it. They’d watched daytime soaps. It wasn’t a thing you knew of in real life so much as a thing that _could_ and did happen to people occasionally. It was an easy thing to say to explain a not so very easy thing at all.

What was happening to Eliot was different; he had no doubt. There was no real name for it; no fitting way to describe it. A swarm of memories he’d never experienced buzzed just at the edges of his conscious mind, threatening to overwhelm him. They kept slipping through--just trickles. Every now and then, a torrent.

Margo Hanson, for fucking instance, usually sparked nothing in Eliot besides indifference. She’d ditched him hard after a few whirlwind weeks of intense, bordering-on-obsessive friendship their first year in graduate school. She had filled him with hope and dropped him, just as everyone eventually did. 

But this Margo—the one in the coffee shop—she was different. Or his memory of her was. Tinged with deep tenderness, abiding love and kinship, and an emotion Eliot thought akin to grief. Like he’d experienced the crushing loss of someone so deeply important to him that there was a piece of him _missing_ , and that piece was shaped quite like Margo. And fuck—well, yeah—he’d almost, very tentatively let himself want a _real_ friendship when he’d met Margo. But that didn’t account for the profound and sweeping feeling of loss or the almost unbearable impulse he felt to pull her into his arms and kiss her forehead, to tell her he’d missed her, that he would never let them live so far apart again. That he’d always be there. He had nearly revealed the crazed and crushing weight of those unwelcome thoughts when she looked up at him and laughed. It was a simple thing; just a laugh. There was a rightness to it just at the edge of his understanding.

Whether or not the memories brought beauty with them--and some did--Eliot Waugh no longer felt like Eliot Waugh. Which was—disconcerting. He’d worked so hard for so long to create the creature that he was. One bad batch of cocaine—or whatever it was—and a good whack to the head had created cracks in that façade. And now there was a bubbling discomfort just beneath all the qualities he’d worked so hard to cultivate. 

Quentin kept following him, trying to keep pace with his strides to get to—honestly, Eliot didn’t really fucking know where he was taking him; he was just _walking_. He kept nervously tucking his hair behind his ears and looking like he wanted to say something. _Quentin. Q._ They paused at a crosswalk, and Quentin’s deep brown eyes were on him, hopeful and anxious and full of hidden things. 

"You probably still should, uh, get to the doctor or something. Like does your school have a student health office? I mean, you maybe like need a CT--or--I don't know--" Quentin's deep-set eyes were focused on him, his lips lightly parted.

Eliot had half a mind to push him against the nearest wall, to kiss away that vulnerable look of uncertainty, to break it apart with all the talents he'd acquired over long years—

 _This need_ felt like the Normal Eliot. Drown the haunting memories--illusions--with an elegant cocktail and the tender mouth and hands of this very beautiful, very eager boy. That was all that was happening here. 

"I'm fine. But your concern is noted. And exceptionally adorable." 

"Adorable?" The color rose in Quentin's cheeks. "I'm just--I don't know you, but, it just sounds serious."

"Do you want to know me?" He took a step closer to Quentin. "Want to follow me where I'm going?" ( _Where was he going?_ )

"I, um. Yeah." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I don't, like, normally walk off with strangers. So I hope--maybe--to get to know you. And maybe--"

"Maybe what?"

Quentin shook his head like he was trying to sort through his unsettled thoughts. "Maybe... I don't know."

The boy's desire was palpable. It thrummed in the air like the beating of a heart. This thing, Eliot knew all too well. And he'd be kind. So kind. He wanted him, wanted him so much, without knowing entirely why. It seemed as natural as breathing to stand like this, next to Quentin. No, it didn't make a lot of good sense. But Eliot wasn't about good sense, and this want sat at the core of him, and the only natural thing was to follow it. This felt entirely real, an antidote to the all the strangeness creeping in from the corners of his mind.

The city buzzed on around them, the traffic whirring, tourists cutting around them in circles as they waited. Eliot handed Quentin a cigarette, brushing his thumb over Quentin's hand as he did. 

Quentin took a small, sharp breath. “I don’t usually, um. But sometimes. Special occasions.” His nervousness was sugar-sweet—delectable, distracting. 

Eliot didn't want to go home and sort through his shit. He didn't want to work on the project and the odd vision of it he'd created in his mind. He just wanted this boy with his strong jaw and his young, thoughtful face. “Call it a special occasion.” 

The boy put the cigarette between his lips, which _did things_ to Eliot. Again, that felt more like Normal Eliot. Heady and light, like he felt around any new conquest. He leaned in close and lit the cigarette, watching Quentin’s mouth and toying with a set of ideas that weren’t entirely pure. He looked inexperienced and new and fresh and drawn to the fucked-up, crushed thing inside of Eliot.

“And what’s the special occasion?” 

The smoke unfurled in the air, and they crossed the street, headed in the direction of the bar where Eliot worked. He supposed that would work for an afternoon dalliance. The first of, hopefully, a few... “Afternoon drinks with me. Putting down you laptop and your books. Talking to me about yourself, about nothing.” 

“I doubt you’d be all that interested in talking to me.”

He glanced at Quentin, who was blushing prettily. “I'm the one who gets to decide if I'm interested. And I am.”

Quentin pulled his hair into a bun (fucking sexy, Jesus), cigarette in his mouth, hands moving quickly. His nondescript, brown coat was at least half a size too big, and his khakis, which were supposed to be tight against his legs are wrinkled at the knees. He was like a kid wearing his big brother’s clothes, trying—not very hard—to be _slightly_ fashionable.

“And you’ll make me a drink?” 

Eliot grinned. “I’ll make you whatever you want."

“And how do I know you’re not like, a full-on axe murderer? And I’m the guy in the first act who gets, like, lured in by the roguish—villain?” His voice was less hesitant now. Still red-cheeked and wide-eyed. But aware. 

“Not an axe murderer. And roguish is my main goal in life when it comes to impressing cute boys.” 

“Um,” Quentin said, “Not something I hear all that frequently.” 

“It should be,” Eliot murmured. 

And Q—Quentin—smiled, kissable dimples in his cheeks. "And I didn't say I was impressed. I just said you might be a villain." 

Fucking _charming._ And just a little bratty. 

Eliot wondered what he would look like beneath him, pupils blown and utterly taken apart. Maybe not today but… Eliot had time to waste on a boy for a week or so while he got this fucking project started. This was just the start of it. An odd start, but oh, this boy was sweet.

"Are you taking me--to your--your place?"

"Mm. That's an idea I like... but no." Eliot flicked his eyes toward Quentin, who was attempting to hide the implication that he was wondering if they were going to _fuck._ "I'm taking you here." Eliot pointed at the nondescript black door set into the depressing gray cement of an old, windowless building. 

"Your axe murderer hideout? No thanks." 

Eliot snorted. "It's the bar where I work. Like I said, I make drinks. We'll drink them. And satisfy our curiosity."

"Curiosity? Hm--you sound like you think that I'm curious about--you. You're not super hard to figure out."

“Am I not?” Eliot walked up to the door and pulled his keys from his waistcoat pocket. He slipped his key in the lock and looked back at Quentin, who looked defiant and more than a little bratty. This foray was feeling less and less like a weird idea and more like a very good one.

"Yeah, no," Quentin said, walking behind him. He made a fumbling proclamation that Eliot was probably a serial killer and was taking him to a clean room like Dexter, but his words fizzled out as Eliot walked behind the bar and turned on the light. 

"So, tell me about myself, Quen-tin," Eliot teased as he sorted through the dregs of the alcohol on the bottom shelf, noting which combinations he could make without Marina noticing that he'd swiped a few drinks worth of alcohol. He had plenty to work with. 

"You're from... the city. And you grew up maybe with... money. You majored in design and you’re probably good at it but... you’d rather fuck off and have fun most of the time.” 

Eliot poured himself a drink with gin and blackberry liqueur, shaking it and pouring it over crushed ice. “No, not quite. Though I’d definitely much rather fuck off most of the time.”

“And you’re a bartender because you’re... really fucking attractive, and I bet you get a fuck of a lot of tips from men _and_ women.”

“Now you’re just stating facts.”

Quentin chuckled and absently twirled a stray wisp of hair around his finger. “Definitely full of yourself.”

“Fucking absolutely.”

Some of his memories of working at the bar were tapping in and out in his consciousness, toying with him, telling him something beyond his understanding was still going on, but his hands moved automatically as he sorted through alcohol, pulling out sweet flavors. He knew Quentin would want something sweet and palatable. This puppyish boy. He couldn’t be that much younger than Eliot—a year, maybe two. But something in his earnest look and the almost-put-together outfit and the fantasy books he was carrying around with his laptop like little treasures... those things made Eliot think _boy,_ , not in an undesirable or patronizing way, but in the sweetest way. He’d like being held, taken care of. Encouraged. In the mix of this, Eliot knew that felt _right._

While Eliot pulled out different bottles, arranging and rearranging them, sorting flavors, Quentin chattered on pleasantly about the books in his bag (Eliot had asked), and his time at Columbia University and how once, he'd thought he was going to major in philosophy, but something was drawing him steadily toward books. The words washed over Eliot like a pleasant, healing balm, calming and good and real. He put more ice in the cocktail shaker, drawing out the time he could listen to the soothing cadence of his voice. He took a sip of his own drink and looked over at Quentin, who was gesturing and talking about some kind of children's portal fantasy book, the name of which sounded weirdly familiar, almost intimate. Eliot shivered and cleared his throat, cutting Quentin off.

“What do you like to drink, Quentin?”

“Definitely not beer.”

Eliot gave him a wry smile. “Correct answer. Flavor profile?”

“I don’t really know what that means. Like sweet or tart?”

“Oh, I can definitely do both. But sweet first. I have a few good tricks up my sleeve. 

“You’re still talking about drinks?” Quentin’s gaze stayed on Eliot as he mixed vodka and liqueur and a hint of simple syrup and mint. 

Heat started to brew in Eliot's core, building as he poured his creation into the tumbler and shook. “For now, that's what I'm talking about,” he replied, pushing the drink toward Quentin. “You’ll like this.”

Eliot walked back around to stand next to Quentin, who drank a bit too quickly and darted his eyes over to Eliot. “This is, um. Very nice,” he murmured. His body, all sharp, elegant lines beneath his slightly too-big clothes, was turned toward Eliot, open and nervous and deliciously needy all at once. 

Quentin moved closer, so close, in the silent space, in the warm shadows cast by the light over the bar. The light picked up hints of gold in his hair; his expressive eyebrows were knitted together just slightly. He tucked a stray bit of hair behind Quentin’s ear and felt something like electricity in the air between them. Quentin leaned into his touch, lips parted, eyes closed, sighing softly. A lovely little moan escaped his lips, and he put down his drink.

Eliot brushed his thumb over the tip of Quentin's ear and down over his neck, curling his fingers into the loose, soft strands at the base of his neck. Quentin's breath hitched when Eliot pulled at the frayed hair tie, letting thick waves of hair fall over his shoulders. He threaded his fingers through it again, pushing it back and letting it fall, just listening to the pace of Quentin's breathing. "I think I'd make a rule that you can't put your hair up when you're alone with me." 

"Mm that sounds like, ah, you'd want to have me--alone--with you--again--"

Eliot let his fingers roam down to the nape of Quentin's neck, down to the collar of his shirt, up over the strong lines of his neck and jaw, brushing his knuckles over the slightest hint of stubble. "What made you think I wouldn't?" 

Quentin made little hushed sounds as Eliot closed the space between them, pushing him against the bar and touching his lips to the base of his jawline. No, this wasn't a boy, he'd decided, to see one time. He'd like to take his time and explore, expose the hidden things he wanted, make him beg, tempt him and tease him and--

Moving quickly and surely, Quentin leaned up and kissed him, quickly at first. When he pulled back, Eliot closed that space again, wanting to sink into this boy who seemed to have no rough edges to him, who, though shy, was unabashed and certain and more than a little bit brave. It wasn't often that Eliot Waugh felt True Things when he kissed someone. More often than not, he was far less sober, and in all the times he could remember, he was seeking to fill an emptiness inside of him, one that had always existed. When he kissed Quentin, sweet and slow and tasting of blackberries and sugar and the soft tang of gin, something else crept over him--something strange and pure and woven together with the feeling of home. It was like slipping into a dream, one of the splendid dreams, tinged with nostalgia, permeated with the smell of earth after rainfall, the heat of a crackling fire, of the crunch of leaves in autumn beneath his feet, the taste of homegrown carrots and--peaches.

It was a silly, giddy rush of emotion, like the rush of a new high--but lingering and wholesome and _worthy_ , which didn't feel very much like Eliot's life or his mind or the shape of any of his worldly desires. His pulse quickened, a coil of real desire, not an empty, needy wanting, building inside of him--a long forgotten thing, or perhaps a thing entirely unknown. His arms pulled Quentin in close, and kissed him, melted into him, felt his own body grow hot and pliant, a whirlwind of thoughts and images--and memories--flashing inside of him, none of it making sense or going according to the plans he'd made when he first laid eyes on Quentin in that coffee shop. He groaned against those sweet lips, his hands moving beneath Quentin's shirt and his soul living in the soft, strangled sound that he made as Eliot touched him. Maybe Eliot was actually high--was he? He didn't recall anything apart from that one drink, and that simply couldn't explain how he could feel _this_ as he touched and ached against someone he'd only just met. His breathing came faster now, the heady rush turning from tender to overwhelming in the beats of a few moments. There _wasn't_ a way to explain what he was feeling, what was happening, what he was seeing as he closed his eyes and kissed this lovely boy who felt so, so familiar. 

Eliot pulled away as the _Thing_ began to happen, the threatening, awful act of remembering--not only the beautiful things that had started to seep into his consciousness, but also the overwhelming weight of grief and guilt and a profound and troubling loss he'd tried to drink away for more years than he had been alive. Eliot was shaking, and Quentin was looking into his eyes, confusion and concern etched over his face. Beyond that was another darkness, the one that was connected to the throbbing at the back of his head and the awful, swaying sickness of falling and _dying_ and waking again a person apart from the man he had always been.

"Eliot--Eliot, are you okay? Did I do something--something wrong?"

"No, no--I'm just dizzy--"

Quentin had his hands on him, steadying him. But Eliot crumpled to the floor, crushed beneath the weight of all the things he couldn't fully remember. He let out a choked sob and felt Quentin's arms wrap around him.


	11. Held Close in Your Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin have lots of feelings. They make out like teenagers. There are lots of feelings. So many feelings. Every feeling. All of them. If you didn't want angst, I'm sorry, here we are.
> 
> If you want to take a stab at what my other favorite show is, I'll give you a virtual cookie. Because I'm borrowing a few theories from that show. 
> 
> Also, feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The famous saudade of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness." - A. F. G. Bell, Portugal of 1912  
> ~~~  
> CW: references to drugs, depression, anxiety, panic attacks. And UST. All of it.

~Quentin~

***

8:03PM **Margo** : where the fuck are you 

8:05PM **Margo** : Jesus tittyfucking Christ

8:10PM **Margo** : your roommate is a dick

8:19PM **Margo** : kinda hot but i wouldn't fuck him

9:04PM **Margo** : I hate u Quentin i'm going home i can't stand penny

10:15PM **Margo** : tell me where you fucking are 

***  
When Quentin woke up, it was dark outside. Rain was tapping against the windows, casting swirling shadows over the gray walls. There was a crick in his neck and a long arm draped over his body. The owner of the long arm mumbled something in his sleep and drew Quentin in closer to him. Warm breath fluttered against his cheek, smelling faintly of gin and cigarettes and mint. Quentin grumbled sleepily, opening his eyes for a fraction of a second and closing them, bleary and confused, like he’d been drunk. But he hadn’t been.

As he stretched, the owner of the arm drew him in closer. Soft lips pressed against his temple. A huff of air. A small laugh in the dark. He was pressed tight against a bare expanse of skin, muscular and hard and linear. Quentin made a soft, contented sigh, even if he really. Had no idea. Where the fuck he was?

_Shit._

Fuck. Well. 

Jesus. This wasn’t his apartment. That was for sure. And he wasn’t alone. That was also for sure. 

He closed his eyes to organize his thoughts. But. 

Fingers tangled in his hair, and kisses trailed over the line of his jaw down to the hollow at the base of his neck, each movement lighting a pathway of fire beneath his skin. A hand caught the jut of his hip, short fingernails against his skin. He thrummed with longing, singing and high-pitched and utterly… destabilizing. He closed his eyes and sank into the feeling of floating as fingers and lips moved over him, as a mouth found his, kissing, tentative and tender.

He had—what had he been doing? He’d had one drink. Eliot Waugh had kissed him, and he'd dissolved into it, and the very core of him had been rubbed raw with wanting. Desperate. Inevitable. 

And then he’d held Eliot as he shook on the floor of the empty bar. They sat like that for a long time and Quentin had whispered ( _just breathe; I’ve got you_ ). He’d convinced him to get up and walked him slowly home, Eliot leaning into him. He was bigger than Quentin—like at least half a foot taller—and even though he was slender and willowy, he was a heavy weight against Quentin as they walked. Eliot had held onto him, apologizing again and again ( _I’m not like this I’m sorry I really—you can go—I’ll be fine—_ ).

Quentin was going to stay—of _course_ , he wouldn’t leave someone like this, even someone he didn’t know. _Especially_ someone he didn’t know. 

And Quentin was good in a crisis, having had many a fucking crisis himself. And he’d behave himself. Quentin was fairly certain you shouldn’t hook up with anyone in the middle of a panic attack. And even if Eliot denied it (he tried), that’s what this was.

Hands on his back. A thumb slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. A halting breath. 

Eliot had told him to _stay, stay, stay, please stay, I’m so sorry_. 

Quentin had kept his head about him, even with Eliot’s deep, hazel eyes locked on him. He’d helped him into bed and taken off his shoes. He put a glass of water on the crowded bedside table, retrieved what Eliot assured him was a Xanax ( _or whatever, it’ll work like a Xanax_ ) from a drawer full of pills ( _what the fuck are all these for, Eliot?_ ), and he’d sat down on the bed beside him ( _I have them because I’m a fuck up okay?_ ). Before he gave Eliot the little circular pill, Quentin looked it up and made sure of what it was from the numbers printed on the small white circle. Ativan. That was fine in a pinch. It would at least relax him enough so that he could stop shaking. Quentin could do this. He could get Eliot what he needed and get him some breakfast in the morning and he'd go, and it would all be just fine. He could sleep on the weird velvet sofa on the other corner of the room and--he kept sitting there, next to him.

He had taken Eliot’s hand in his and traced circles over his palm until his breathing slowed. His skin was soft and smooth like the pages of a new book, and he couldn’t help but bring those fingers to his lips and kiss them as Eliot curled around him and pulled him down on the bed. He remembered— _god_ —Eliot clumsily unbuttoning his own shirt and helping him take it off, touching his skin. 

And somehow, Quentin had ended up next to him in bed, the whole of Eliot against him, skin to skin. For the most part. 

Quentin was still wearing his embarrassingly plaid boxers, and Eliot had on something sexy and soft. Eliot was wrapped tight around him, like Quentin was the only anchor tying him to this world. His lips found Quentin’s again, sleepy and sexy and— _fuck_. 

Quentin pulled away, breathing heavy and hard. “What… what time is it?”

“Who cares?” Lips back on his neck, tongue flicking over skin.

“I don’t even know you—we really shouldn’t—”

“I’m Eliot,” he said, nuzzling into Quentin’s neck. “Now you know me.”

“Stop—hey—you weren’t okay—you’re—”

Eliot stilled, one hand at the base of Quentin’s spine. “Terribly fucked up? Yes.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

“Um, it’s fine. Obviously. Card carrying member of the terribly fucked up club—and—I chose to stay—but I—should get up—”

Eliot let out a sharp groan against his neck. He pressed his teeth gently to Quentin’s skin, sending a jolt of electricity through him. “But you taste so good.”

 _Oh my God._

“Good point but—um—maybe we should save this for a day when no one has, like, had a total like, whatever—”

“Mm. Maybe.” Eliot gave a sharp little laugh. “You’re way too reasonable.”

“I just met you—”

“Argument rejected.”

“And you’re not in a good place—you need to see a doctor—”

“Stop telling me I need to see a doctor.” Eliot moved against him with a hint of annoyance, lacing his fingers through Quentin’s hair, murmuring words into his neck. “You’re not any fun.” 

Quentin knew he should get the fuck out of Eliot’s bed. He was just—some guy—who was—okay— _really_ fucking good looking and like, weirdly charming even in the midst of a full-on breakdown. The whole perfect fucking hair, goddamn long-legged and graceful saunter, the easy confidence that was definitely a mask for much deeper insecurity (Quentin had been to a lot of therapy, ok?), and the sheer physicality and sensuality, the depth of his unmitigated need—that was really— _wow_. 

He’d need to unpack all of this at some point because it was like, _not_ super healthy. Because only being attracted to people who are just as fucked up as you are—or _more_ —was, like, probably not a good look for someone who had spent a weekend in mental institution— _“psychiatric care facility”_ —right after his acceptance into graduate school. And it definitely wasn’t a good idea to fuck this guy, like at all, for a huge number of other reasons. Not the least of which was—well—this was _doing_ something to Quentin that felt like, way beyond the edge of his comfort zone. Waves of intense fucking _emotion_ and Jesus Christ, he barely knew this person. Like, didn’t know him at all but felt like he did—and it was very fucking _odd_ , and he for sure needed to like, journal about this or call his therapist or—

“You’re thinking too loud.”

“Yeah, well, I—um—” 

“Eloquent.”

Quentin laughed. “Shut the fuck up. You know this is fucking— _crazy_ —”

“Is it?” Eliot pulled him into another kiss, tongue insistent and lips full and soft and stubble rubbing against Quentin’s cheek, and oh _goddamn_. God, did it feel good to be kissed like this, like he was the only person Eliot had ever wanted, like it _meant something_. It didn’t, clearly. Quentin wasn’t good at things that meant anything because he was always bound to fuck it all right the fuck up. And he didn’t know for sure, but he had an inkling that Eliot, if he ever let himself get the slightest bit into his feelings with another human, was quite likely a human tornado of fuck-up-itude. 

But it was _nice_. It was really fucking nice. Eliot shifted away from Quentin’s mouth and nibbled at his ear, which sent, like a whole extra chill down Quentin’s spine. “There’s a lot we can do, you know, that’s not fucking. If you’d rather wait ’til the second date.”

“This is—not—” Quentin laughed, “—a date.”

“Fine, are you asking me on a real date? Because yes, absolutely. You can take me on a date.” Eliot pulled up onto one elbow and brushed Quentin’s hair away from his face. 

His hair tie was like, _somewhere_. But Eliot had tossed it the fuck across the room at some point in the night. It had been, he thought somewhat smugly, a good idea not to follow Julia’s advice to get a ‘nice haircut’ before the semester began. Eliot couldn’t keep his hands out of Quentin’s hair and—strange or not, well, it was all strange—Quentin really, really liked the feeling of those long fingers against his scalp, tangling and tugging—and in the dark, Eliot was looking at him. And he felt tender and kind and warm despite all the hard, sardonic edges he presented to the world.

“You’re not what I expected,” Quentin said. 

“Oh? What did you expect?” Which Q interpreted (he thought—correctly) as _What did Margo tell you?_

“Hm, well.” Quentin tried to ignore the pulse of need that sat just beneath his skin, the heated closeness of the— _really fucking nice_ —body next to his. “I saw you and I thought, that guy is really hot. So that’s basically the only impression I had of you—”

“Lies. Tell me.” Eliot burrowed close against his neck, fingers twisting in his hair. “But I am hot. That's a good start. Continue.”

“Margo said something like ‘that guy is the worst’ and ‘he’ll eat you alive.’”

“I definitely want to eat you alive.” He nibbled at Quentin’s neck. 

“—And I guessed you were a player—”

“A what now?”

“Um.”

“Quentin. It’s not 2005. I’m not on an episode of _My So Called Life._ ”

“That whole sentence is, like, totally, asynchronous—”

“I like a man with big words. I have a thing for high-strung nerds who give me a good ‘ _well, actually_ ’ every few minutes.”

“Wow, I’m so flattered. Please keep on—”

Eliot brushed his hand over Quentin’s shoulder and down the expanse of his arm. “With long, thick hair.”

“And… what else?”

“That’s it, really. It’s just your hair. Everything else—just superfluous. I’m shallow and predictable because, apparently I’m a _player_ —I didn’t know if you’d heard.”

“That is still a word that people use to like, denote, someone who sleeps with people and then—ditches them.”

“Ouch.” Eliot didn’t sound particularly wounded. He was still looking at Quentin in the weird half-light filtering in through the windows. Outside, the rain picked up, beating hard and staccato against the roof and the streets. 

“I didn’t mean—”

“I get it. I give a particular impression. And I picked you up. And I fully intended on fucking you until you couldn't remember your own name—”

“You’re not, like, making a super great case for yourself or anything.” 

“But not just once. A few times. At least.” Eliot’s voice was low. A lightning bolt of heat shot through Quentin at the thought. It had been so long; that was all. And with a guy—a guy like this one who obviously knew what he was doing, who could make him feel _small_. And protected. God, he liked that with guys. And you know, the like dozen or so red flags were really turning him on.

Yeah, he’d be needing to think this one out for a while. 

Quentin grumbled and wanted to—what did he want to do? Climb under the fifty decorative pillows on Eliot’s king size bed and live there forever. He opted for burying his flushed face against the mattress. Eliot’s sheets were really, really soft. And somehow cool to the touch—and they smelled of citrus and sage and something distinctly _Eliot_ , clean and bright and masculine. And the mattress was one of those super nice memory foam things, not the shitty kind from Amazon, but from a fancy place that makes thick, plush beds with layers of expensive sounding shit like ‘memory core cooling foam’ and ‘latex spring comfort layer.’ He had white candles and bergamot-scented massage oil on the bedside table (next to the water Quentin had put there, right before Eliot pulled him down and clung to him and couldn’t let go). Like he had this whole bachelor pad set up for—Quentin had been considering the possibilities, he couldn’t lie about that. 

Eliot brushed his knuckles against the back of Quentin’s neck. “Hey, where’d you go?”

“Hiding in my own—everything. Hiding,” he mumbled into the memory foam. A thrill ran down his spine as skilled fingers moved to his shoulders, finding the knots there. But he didn’t relax. He needed to _go_. But he didn’t want to go. Like at all. He wanted to surrender into that touch, touch those lips to his, drown under the heat and weight of tall, long limbs, submit to the deep crimson fucking flags and the Very Bad Ideas that surrounded all things to do with Eliot Waugh. 

“I’m supposed to be the one breaking down here,” he said softly. “You zoned out there for a second. Look at me.”

Quentin lifted back up and flopped his head onto one of the silky pillows. Eliot kissed him softly, wrapping his arms around Quentin like he too wanted to dissolve beneath the sheets and into a body that was not his own. Wait, this was—no—he’d had to drag Eliot home and physically force him into bed, breathing with him until he’d calmed down. This was _no,_ not at all happening. No matter how much he burned for it (and he was on _fire_ ). Quentin pulled away, breathless, blood rushing in his ears. 

“Eliot. Tell me what happened. Maybe you need to actually tell someone what’s going on without, you know. Glib references to soap operas.”

“Hm. Doesn’t sound like me.”

Quentin lifted his head. “Seriously. I mean, fuck it, you don’t know me from Adam—”

“He was here last week. I can’t see getting the two of you confused.”

“Eliot.”

He sighed. “I know, I know. Look—I’m not like whatever Margo told you—”

“She didn’t tell me much.”

“So… I’m not like all of your extrapolations. I dated a guy last year, and things didn’t work out well. I’ve, yeah, slept around a bit. I stay safe, get tested—”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I’m getting there.” Eliot sighed. He ran his fingers through Quentin’s hair again, brushing his thumb over the rim of his ear. It was all Quentin could do not to lean into him like a kitten, purring and pushing for more. 

“Tell me.”

Eliot stiffened and leaned in closer to Quentin. “I think I was attacked that night that the—” he seemed to be struggling for a word. “—whole concussion-amnesia-blacking out thing happened. And I was fucked up on something my friend brought to the bar.”

“Who did this to you?” Quentin raised his hand to the back of Eliot’s head, gently sorting through the curls and finding the swollen remains of an injury that had been 100% emergency room worthy, and not something _anyone_ should just push through and ignore. 

“I don’t know. Marina—my manager, this bristly bitch who took care of me for reasons I don’t fully understand—said there was a lot of blood and... I was gone for a little… bit of time. I guess. I came back. I don't remember anything from that night. And patches here and there are sketchy, like big stretches of my life I swear I could remember before.”

“You were 'gone'?”

Eliot leaned into Quentin’s shoulder. “She said I didn’t have a pulse. She didn’t even have time to call 911 before I came to and panicked about going to the hospital. I don’t—I really don’t like hospitals. Or doctors. Ever since the whatever—that was three days ago—my brain hasn’t been playing nice.”

“I understand about brains not playing nice.” Quentin gently twisted his fingers through the loose, soft curls of Eliot’s hair, carefully avoiding the healing wound.

“And when we—when I kissed you—I had this huge flood of emotions and—images. Or sensations, I guess. Like impressions of this whole other—it sounds really insane—but like this whole other place and maybe time.”

“Like déjà vu?”

“No. Not quite. Like. Melancholy or wistfulness… but for… something I never actually lived. Or—like a life that I lived and lost, something or someone I won’t see again—but it’s all—” Eliot laughed. “—this sounds absolutely insane.”

“But it’s all actually happening—or happened—somewhere inside of you?” It didn’t sound so crazy to Quentin. But then again, Quentin had spent most of his teens and twenties wandering and lost and reaching for something impossible. He just had never figured out exactly what.

Eliot took in a breath. “Yeah, that’s it.” 

Quentin expected him to try to explain it away, to tell him it was all obviously an effect of almost dying. Hallucinations. Amnesia, as he’d said. Or a combination of the two. But he didn’t. Eliot stayed pressed against him in the dark, breathing quietly.

“There’s this Portuguese word, _saudade_.” Quentin started. He laughed a little. “This is big nerd stuff, but it’s something I’m working on in my thesis. And it applies—like I'm saying—I guess I know what you’re saying.” He expected Eliot to call him a dork or roll his eyes in the half-light, but instead, he stayed quiet for a little while. They listened to the rain, the swish of cars driving through wet streets.

“What does it mean?”

“It means a couple of different things. The best definition—to me—the one I’m writing about is… it’s kind of like nostalgia, but for an experience you didn’t live—or didn’t finish. And there’s this duality to it, like the hope that all of those things you didn’t live might return.”

“Yeah. Kinda like that,” Eliot said. He brought his lips to Quentin’s again, gentle and giving, soft and light. They lay there together, with Eliot kissing him, tangled together in the cool sheets with arms and legs wrapped together in the cold New York apartment.

“I can go if you want to get some sleep.”

“Stay,” he said.

So Quentin did.


	12. I Almost Believe That They're Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot being Eliot. Quentin being Quentin. Cuteness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some mention of previous abuse, mental health stuff. Eliot being an idiot.

~Eliot~

Quentin was gone when Eliot woke up. What Eliot felt was a combination of panic and relief. It was mostly panic. But that was a thing he was familiar with. He’d just beat it to death with drugs and alcohol for the past ten years or so. He’d honestly have no problem doing that today. 

The whole thing had been very intense—he didn’t blame Quentin for getting the fuck out of dodge. Certainly, Eliot would have done the same if he weren’t already in his own apartment. It was just that the collective insanity of the last three days had left him adrift in an unexplored sea of intense emotion, and Quentin had felt like the one thing he could hold onto. Eliot could easily kill that swell of intense _feeling_ ; he had it down to a fine art.

The _relief_ part was tied to the whole images-in-his-head thing. He’d told Quentin more than he’d wanted to share about the Things He Saw. And if Q had ghosted him—well, he wouldn’t blame him it. Eliot could go back to being Normal Eliot. He would make loads of tips at the bar and skate by in graduate school and win big on the next fashion designer reality show or become a house-husband for a very rich lawyer with a very big dick. 

Normal Eliot really had no room for a Quentin-sized problem. Floppy-haired, puppy-eyed, slight and compact Quentin, who had no artifice at all to him, no grand mystery. He was just kind and beautiful and unabashedly nerdy and sarcastic and _honest_. Quentin had stayed with Eliot after he collapsed and kissed him and told him he’d be _okay_. In a few hours, Quentin had given Eliot far more than the scraps of kindness that he’d been living on for the past twenty-six years. Eliot thought perhaps he’d been wrong about labeling Quentin as a boy. Neither of them were really Grown Men, not in the way Eliot thought of. But Q—Quentin—had the bearing of someone who was determined to figure out how to be a real human being, no matter how many times he failed at it. Yeah, no. Eliot didn’t have time for any of that. 

Really, as much as he wanted to fuck Quentin (yes, that thought kept slipping in there), there were a metric fuckton of other good-looking nerds in New York. He could even set up his search parameters to filter for shoulder-length hair, which he never knew he had a thing for until yesterday afternoon. See? He had learned something from this brief, emotional sojourn with a very cute boy who was now gone because Eliot was frightening and at odds with the world he once knew. He stretched in bed and rolled over, trying to focus on the relief of it all—and not the growing sense of _whatthefuck pleasedon’tgo_.

It was still raining—drizzling now—and he needed to steel himself with coffee and Ritalin and maybe a spare Ativan and possibly two to two and half cigarettes to get the fuck through the designs he’d promised to High Queen Fucking Margo Hanson so she could make purchase plans for lengths of brocade and organza and crushed silk. God, okay. He could do this if only to go The Garment District with money directly from the project sponsors and buy it all with Margo—who he was planning on getting to _not hate him_ because that seemed like the Thing to Do. For reasons. 

The pillow smelled like Quentin. Like, mm, Pantene Pro-V and Old Spice shaving cream. _Basic little bitch._ He breathed it in, and maybe he could lie here for a few more minutes and think about how lovely it would be to take him apart entirely, even though he wouldn’t get to—

A key turned in the lock of his door, and it pushed open to reveal a hastily dressed and damp Quentin (who hadn’t thought to take the umbrella sitting right next to Eliot’s door, of course). The shirt under his sweater was partially untucked, and his hair looked like sex hair. One of the shoestring on his black leather boots was hanging loose, and he was holding two cups of coffee in a cardboard carrier and what looked like a bag of— _God_ —pastries. He was probably making huge gooey eyes at Quentin right now, and he really couldn’t give too many fucks about that. He was only human. 

“I, um. I didn’t know what kind of food you like so I got—a couple of biscuits with like, some bacon and—avocado. And then—” Quentin awkwardly put the coffee on Eliot’s kitchen-table-slash-desk and started spreading the pastries out on the kitchen counter (such as it was). “I got these donut things and a couple of danishes that looked good. And some fresh fruit because—you probably need the vitamins.”

_Vitamins._

Oh, he was cute. Problematic and complicated and—he had fresh fruit. For a fleeting second, Eliot wished he had someone to tell about his adorable stranger-guest who he definitely didn’t fuck, and who absolutely stole his key and reappeared with breakfast. But he didn’t have anyone to tell, not really. He had plenty of _friends_ , just not that kind.

Eliot watched him, damp hair falling out of his man-bun and over one eye. He was looking for plates and silverware in Eliot’s tiny kitchenette, which was more like a square foot of counter and a single burner. There weren’t words, not really, to give to Quentin, to tell him how he felt in that moment. Just that, perhaps, the relief he felt at seeing him again outweighed the relief that he had left.

“I can cook, you know. You didn’t have to go all domestic on me. Terribly unexciting.” Because Eliot was Eliot, he’d opted for mild bitchiness. When he could have just said _thank you_.

Quentin was too absorbed in looking in his refrigerator to notice. “I actually kind of did have to. You say you can cook like it’s a thing you actually do—but you don’t have a scrap of food. And you don’t have anything to drink besides Riesling—” Quentin paused and looked in the freezer, “—and gin.”

“I have tonic water. And maraschino liqueur, which is like a fruit.”

Quentin looked at him, eyebrows knit together. “Eliot. You had a panic attack—”

“Episode—it was an _episode_ —”

“And you need calories. And no alcohol before like, five today. Trust me.”

“And you’re going to take care of me? My prince?”

“Mm, yeah. Until I have class. Then you can make the decision to text me if you want to see me again.” Quentin said it so casually, almost distracted, while he pulled forks out of Eliot’s drawer and set them on the table. 

Eliot didn’t say anything to that. Quentin had apparently progressed enough in his comfort with Eliot that he wasn’t stumbling over every other word he said, and he was dropping shards of realness all over Eliot’s breakfast fairytale.

“Come eat. How do you like your coffee?” Quentin closed the fridge, likely giving up hope that Eliot kept anything nutritious in his house. It was a fair assessment.

“Like I like my men. Short and pushy.”

Quentin looked down, clearly trying not to smile. He fished Eliot’s keys out of his pocket and put them on the table, waving them slightly at Eliot to demonstrate that he was returning them. “That wasn’t even clever.”

“It was.” Eliot met Quentin’s eyes for a moment, and he saw the worry etched on his face. “Look, I’ll eat. But you need to turn around.”

“What?”

“I need to get my robe?”

“Your… excuse me, your what?”

“My kimono.”

Quentin started laughing. “I’m sorry—we spent all night making out, and you’re suddenly shy.”

Eliot shrugged. “Light of day. I haven’t even had a cigarette yet.” He made a motion with his fingers for Quentin to turn around. 

Quentin grumbled and turned toward the door, taking out his phone. He texted frantically as Eliot reached for the robe slung over the iron bed frame he’d brought to the city from his apartment at Purchase. It was terribly inconvenient to get inside a third story walkup on the Lower West Side, but it made the place feel a little more like home, the kind of home Eliot wanted, anyway. A big iron bed frame, a fireplace, something grand with stone floors. He didn’t have that here, but the bed helped. 

He slung the robe over his shoulders and tied it at the waist before grabbing a pair of blue silk joggers that sort of blended with the geometric design on the robe. Really, he wasn’t shy about his body, and Quentin was certainly correct—they’d spent the evening (and a good part of the early morning) _kissing_ like horny teenagers afraid of dick. Which was exactly why Eliot needed to be dressed. The boy with the sloppy bun and the bag of breakfast foods _did things_ to him, and he’d spent the entirety of the last sixteen hours or so with every guard down, every piece of him exposed. He needed _something_ to mitigate that feeling. It was also gauche to eat bacon and avocado breakfast sandwiches in his underwear. And he wouldn’t budge on that point.

“Okay. I’m decent. More or less.” 

Quentin absently pulled a chair out from the small table, still glued to his phone. “Fucking—fuck,” he mumbled. “It’s none of your business, Margo.” He took a tentative sip of coffee and put one of the biscuits on his plate, along with a helping of fresh fruit—the good kind of fresh fruit. Strawberries and blueberries and oranges with flecks of basil. No fucking cantaloupe. 

Eliot sat down across from him—like this was a perfectly ordinary thing. Normally, he was the one doing the whole breakfast thing. Before he knew he was going to have someone over, he’d be prepared with a dozen eggs, fresh cheese, pomegranate juice, and something carb-y that he made from scratch. He didn’t really have planned dates like that too frequently—and, really, none at all since Mike—but there was Quentin, sitting in his apartment, eating strawberries and drinking whatever the fuck kind of latte he had. 

“Vanilla latte?” He had watched Quentin yesterday as he ordered the same egregious bastardization of coffee, if you could even call it that.

“It’s my weakness,” Quentin said, still typing on his phone, apparently unaware that he was drinking an abomination. “I just got you the house blend. It said on the label it has hints of ‘cherry wood’ and ‘chocolate,’ but it smells like coffee, so. Coffee.” He pushed the cup toward Eliot.

“Thank you for leaving vanilla syrup out of the equation.”

“Sue me. I like sugary coffee drinks.” Quentin shrugged and put his phone down, pressing it into the table like he wanted it to vanish. “And I needed this one. I was supposed to meet Margo last night—”

“Oh. Well. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear you spent the night here.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t know how well you know her—but yeah—”

“I know her well enough.” The parties and dancing and the karaoke, the drinks and the laughing and the brunches after he woke up on the floor with Margo draped over him and laughing. He did remember all of that—he had a sort of burning, strange feeling about it, like he couldn’t parse which of those memories were real and which were part of the Other Eliot, the one who wasn’t real. Traumatic Brain Injury Eliot. The one who, reasonably, should go to the hospital. (He wasn’t going to.)

There _were_ some memories in there he _knew_ weren’t from meeting Margo at the NYU/FIT graduate school mixer last year. Hands tied, cold and naked, talking about things he’d never told anyone in New York, and Margo crying, holding him ( _had she ever cried, here, in this world?_ ). And another Margo, powerful and brutal and _proud_ because she had _chosen_ to be. Because she had chosen to lead. Chosen to become all the things she was meant to become, all the things everyone told her she _couldn’t_ be. Those memories weren’t real. They couldn’t be. They were tinged with satin and gold and _magic_ , and that was… impossible. But, he thought, perhaps those things were part of the real essence of Margo, the one he’d almost known. So yes, he knew her _well enough,_ anyway.

“She’s really pissed. And she thinks I went and stayed with my ex-girlfriend—which is like—where did she get that impression? Alice won’t even talk to me. So like. No.”

“Ex-girlfriend?” Eliot raised an eyebrow and took a sip of coffee, a bite of biscuit. The biscuits really were very good.

“Yeah, um, I know,” Quentin deadpanned, “I, too, am stunned that someone dated me long enough to get that title.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Don’t be obtuse. Sexuality is not like a—set thing. Mine is just—like—what it is.”

“Which is?”

“Really? Take a wild guess.”

Eliot paused and studied Quentin. “Some version of ‘not straight.’”

“Crazy you figured that all out on your own.” Quentin drank his coffee and gave Eliot a sly look. “What gave me away?”

Eliot shrugged. Okay, yeah, fine. He hadn’t really been thinking about such things when he was in bed with Quentin. His pouty lips and cheeks still looked slightly red. _God_. “Call it a hunch.”

“Well, I’m a card-carrying member of the club, even if I’m not like, especially experienced.” Quentin dropped that bomb like—like he was just unashamed of that fact, like he was telling Eliot about the weather.

Eliot wasn’t _not_ gay. If anyone asked, that’s generally the word he’d use to describe himself (usually, no one asked—people do have a habit of assuming such things). He knew he was not at all straight, and he had exactly zero ex-girlfriends. It’s not that he was insecure—and he required nothing of Quentin. And sure there were plenty of bisexual men out there. It didn’t mean he necessarily—well, he wasn’t biphobic because that would be just—tacky. He wasn’t planning to dwell on it.

“What club?” 

“The club that enjoys, you know, dick.”

Eliot almost spit out his coffee. “That’s awfully forward of you, Quentin.”

“Yeah, well. I figure we passed the, um, shy stage after you pulled me into bed.”

“You might need to prove it to me.”

“Prove what?”

“That you’re not shy?”

Quentin cleared his throat. “I… figured we… might need to do that on a separate occasion.” 

“You’ve said.” Eliot desperately wanted a cigarette. When he looked at Quentin, the room threatened to tip on its side, exposing the reality beneath all of the clever, superficial things that Eliot leaned on in lieu of… well, facing whatever this was. Whatever had changed him so irrevocably, the thing that seemed to multiply tenfold in the face of this very _lovely_ boy. He felt a need to touch him, tease him, rediscover all the things he felt and saw in his mind, in his body, as he held Quentin. This drive toward Q felt stronger even than Eliot’s singular fear of—well, exactly this type of intimacy.

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure how much of this is—like a new, meeting someone new thing. Or if it’s based around the—my sleeping here last night. But you need to work on that project—or Margo will actually kill you. And I need to leave for class in—” Quentin looked at his phone. “—thirty minutes.”

“That’s plenty of time to—”

“You should eat your biscuit. You need to eat, or—trust me—everything is worse when you don’t. Not like you—you, I don’t really know you, but just like, a general you. After something like this. Especially.”

Something in Eliot’s heart—or whatever, such as it was—felt… split open and shredded when he looked at Quentin. He was just here, saying these things like Eliot was a person who deserved that kind of care. They sat together and ate and were quiet for a while, and Eliot didn’t attempt to say anything else quippy or clever. He ate his fresh fruit and drank the decent coffee and consumed half of the biscuit, feeling utterly bare in both his terror and the bone-deep need growing within him.

He handed Quentin his phone. “Put your number in here.”

Quentin gave a little disbelieving laugh like, _Okay, if that’s what you really want._ He typed in his name and number and tossed it back to Eliot.

“Quentin Coldwater?” 

“Um, yeah.” Quentin’s eyebrows quirked up in confusion, like no one had ever pointed out that his name was sort of ridiculous. Cute, sure, but also _overwrought_ , as if his parents had been trying to pick out the weirdest name combination possible with their already sort of _baroque_ last name.

He’d spent all night _making out_ with _Quentin Coldwater._ God help him. 

“Pleased to meet you, _Quentin Coldwater_.” Eliot eyed his coffee and wondered if it was too early to add a shot of whiskey—well, it was just already that kind of day. And that was one thing that was perfectly acceptable to add to coffee.

Quentin snorted. “Okay—Eliot Waugh. I’m—ah—pleased to meet you as well. I think.”

“You should be deeply charmed.” Eliot’s gaze landed on Quentin’s mouth—full , slightly downturned, very pouty—and he thought of the things he might normally say. _There’s a lot we can accomplish in thirty minutes. Or you could just skip your class, Boy Scout._ But he didn’t. The words fell flat in his head. Quentin was too sincere, too over-the-top sweet and almost _innocent_. And despite the vague hints he dropped that he was crazy and moody and had _actual_ panic attacks (Eliot’s _episode_ wasn’t that), he had the depth of mind and _character_ to shut down the actual hook-up that Eliot had planned (hand stuff, blow jobs for everyone, actual fucking in the morning if things were _headed_ that way and maybe a hot shower afterwards—anyway, he was getting way ahead of himself). And Quentin had been unembarrassed about _wanting_ exactly that—he’d been _hard_ against Eliot for most of the night. But he’d backed off out of concern for Eliot. Like, you know, a really decent person. An incredibly sexually frustrating, yet very decent human being who felt so familiar and yet so— _distant_ —leagues away from Mike or any of the other sorts of people Eliot dated (‘dated’ was a loose term).

“I don’t know anything about fashion stuff—”

“Shocking,” Eliot said. “But you’re pulling off the adorable hipster-nerd sex hair look very well.”

A smile lifted Quentin’s face, and that insane sensation—the _thing_ that Quentin Coldwater had ignited— _crackled_ inside of Eliot’s chest. _What the fuck is wrong with you, Waugh?_

“Yeah, Margo—she—ah—she went through my stuff and made something called a _capsule_ wardrobe for me. She keeps threatening to take me on a thrift store crawl, like I’m supposed to know what that means. But I think it involves drinking and—like—dressing me up like a doll?”

Oh, God, that would be so fun and—Eliot wanted to do that. Shit. He really, really did. Okay, shit. With a version of Margo who thought he was charming and funny and a Quentin who he was maybe not fully _dating_ but indulged Eliot because they were maybe almost dating. That was now on his bucket list, and Jesus. No. It shouldn’t be. He swallowed hard, trying not to think of taking Quentin to the dressing rooms and having a full Alicia Silverstone in _Clueless_ moment but like, even more replete with sexual tension. And now that’s all he _could_ think about. 

“Eliot?”

“Hm?”

“You like—went somewhere—”

“Oh, yeah. I’m just tired. From the injury, you know.”

“You should see a—” 

“No. Stop. It’s all over with, and I feel a great deal better this morning. You were saying something about fashion—how you don’t know anything—and you were going to maybe ask me about my glamorous life as a mercurial fashion designer. Do go on.”

“I was going to ask—like, what are you planning for this project thing with Margo? Is it like the equivalent of—like a thesis?”

“Yeah, sort of like that. It’s a big deal. Students who show good collections get job offers and the tiniest bit of notoriety. This is the first year we’re partnering with the fashion and luxury MBA students from NYU. So Margo—we got _assigned_ to work together. She’s supposed to develop the business plan. I design the collection. She gets input and—I make the designs. We get the models lined up. And. Yeah. That’s it.”

“I mean—that sounds really intense and cool—but what are you thinking for the designs? It sounded—neat when you were talking about it.”

 _Neat._ Oh my God. Eliot bit his lip. “Hm, yeah. I think I’m going to lean into the royalty thing. But not like—you know—costume-y. Like wearable but _haute couture_. And like an eighties goth-glam thing with hair and makeup.” 

“I’m not sure what most of those words mean. But it sounds cool.” Quentin was finishing his biscuit, and Eliot thought again how he wanted to ask him to _stay_. The day. The night. Or whatever.

“Well, you have those books—”

“The Fillory books?”

“Yeah, those. You had one of them out in the coffee shop. And I got this idea that I could incorporate that fantasy aesthetic. Like the—”

“Like the kings and queens of Fillory.” Quentin’s eyes lit up, his whole face animated with excitement. Shit, well. Now apparently, Eliot was speaking in Nerd. “Like Rupert Chatwin and Jane—and the villagers and peasants and the landed gentry. There are tons of descriptions in the books, and I have a first edition that was illustrated by this really great Danish artist. The fashion in Fillory was apparently based on a combination of medieval, and like also like, Victorian? I think—I’ll have to check. I mean, if you want me to. I don’t have to.” Quentin was bright-eyed and animated by the time he finished, and he looked like he might come all over himself if he started talking any more about Fillory. It was… oddly hot? 

“Sooo… yep. That was part of the plan. After I saw your book.” 

“That sounds… _amazing_. Wow. Like super fucking creative. Margo will go bananas.”

Eliot stifled a laugh. “I can’t imagine Margo going “bananas” about anything besides _winning_ and beating everyone else into the ground.” But this had definite potential, he thought and—well, maybe Quentin and his weird Danish edition of Fillory could be helpful. 

“Oh, she sure as fuck is going to love this. That’s how we met. I was at the book store on campus and I was looking through all the scholarly stuff about children’s lit—I mean, you can get most all of it online, but I like to have the physical books—”

 _Of course you do, Quentin._

“And, she saw me with my books and she was like, ‘No shit, that’s _Fillory and Further_ , I fucking love those,’ and I didn’t even notice she was actually like, truly terrifying. And we spent like, the afternoon talking about Chatwin’s Torrent and whether or not it could heal—oh well, I mean, you probably don’t want to hear about all this stuff.” 

“I probably could use an expert.” _Don’t say it. Don’t say it. You should wait to text him if you’re even going to text him, and texting him is not a great idea. This is all really fast and weird and—_ “You should come over tonight and look at my designs. See if you have any thoughts.”

Quentin stared at Eliot and turned very, very red. “I, um.”

_Like we’re not sitting here after you spent the night?_

“No pressure. I can read the Wiki pages.”

“You what—you haven’t read the books?”

“Hm, I read like the first quarter of the first one when I was twelve. No, eleven.”

“Jesus,” Quentin said, in the same tone as one might react to someone who says, _I don’t own a TV_ or _I find that Fox News is a really unbiased source for real world news._

“Jesus did have something to do with it. My parents thought anything to do with fantasy or witches was from the devil. I checked it out from the library, and my mother made me take it back the next day.” He skipped the part where his father beat his ass for trying to check out _Fillory_ and _Harry Potter_. He wasn’t in a rush to read them anytime soon. But as for the aesthetic… he could use some help. Even if it was—well—something he shouldn’t be leaning into. Even if inviting Quentin over _again_ for the second night in a row was his next big mistake. Even if he should have been holding onto the whole prickly concept that he didn’t need a complication like Quentin and all the things Quentin brought along with him. 

“That’s, um, pretty fucked up. Those books—they saved my life when I was a kid. When I was a teenager. I’ve read them—a dozen times. And like, I notice something new every time. Like all of those books in my bag, not just the Fillory books, they’re like, a huge part of who I am. Maybe they gave me something, um, like, unreal to hold onto when I was super depressed or when I was in the hospital—or whatever. But like, I just think it’s so important not to limit—anyone—but especially kids on what kind of—like, _stories_ that they consume. Because those stories can mean everything when you—when you need them.” Quentin paused for a minute, flushed and pretty all over again. “I’m sorry they kept that from you.”

The weight of Quentin’s words fell heavy between them. Eliot couldn’t even think of a jab or a quip or an even mildly sarcastic comment about dragons or magic horses or whatever. Because—he guessed—his family did take those stories away from him. He could add that to the list of all the things they’d stolen from him—from the first time his mother spanked him for painting his nails at three years old to the day his father beat him senseless after finding him in bed with the boy from the farm across the street. Eliot had run away not long after that, but he reckoned if he really kept a tally, the tally of those thefts would extend far beyond the day he left Indiana. This was way too deep for this early in the morning. But it didn’t appear that Quentin gave too many fucks about when and how he was _vulnerable_. He just was. 

“God, well. That’s all terribly boring,” Eliot said, clearing his throat. “And it’s over. So if you can give me some of the Cliff’s Notes, that would be extremely helpful. And I’ll cook for you. If you do come. That is.” _Wait, what the fuck was he saying?_

“Yeah, okay,” Quentin said quietly, like he didn’t quite believe that this whole exchange had taken place. Which was fair. Eliot didn’t quite believe it either. Quentin absently picked at his phone and tapped at it, his eyes growing big. “Um, well, I’m probably going to be late to my fem theory class. And they’ll notice since I’m like, one of two guys. Which is weird, considering it’s like, the twenty-first century and like, don’t you think we’re kind at the place in critical theory—of beyond, like, ‘feminism is only for women’ thing?”

“Hm. I’m going to refrain from answering that because I don’t want to sound like… I really don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

Quentin was laughing like Eliot had said something _clever_ (he definitely hadn’t) and making a faint attempt at cleaning up after himself. 

“Don’t worry about this. I’ll get it,” Eliot said. There were crumbs on Quentin’s nice-ish blue sweater, and Eliot got up and reflexively brushed them away. Quentin bit at his lower lip and looked up at Eliot which—okay, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to see where this went, even if the whole thing was just as completely awful as it was completely amazing. It was low stakes. No one knew. And no one really cared about Eliot enough to notice that he wasn’t staying true to the carefully crafted set of Normal Eliot guidelines that had helped him survive this long in the real world. Maybe his brain injury was telling him something? Maybe it was just making him a little insane. Either way. 

Quentin sheepishly gripped the fabric of Eliot’s robe and pulled himself in close, standing up on his toes to kiss Eliot and draw him down into the Quentin-shaped space he now occupied in Eliot’s apartment. It was a shy kiss—sweet—nothing like the hungry, dirty way they’d kissed in the dark. Quentin’s cheeks were pink when he pulled away. “I’ll see you… later I guess. Text me if. Well text me your number, anyway. And text me if you—have other plans.”

Eliot nodded. If he spoke, he might say something stupid and sappy. He had his limits—and he’d been pushing hard against them since the second he kissed Quentin Coldwater. He watched Quentin as he haphazardly gathered his things and kind of aimlessly ambled out the door and down the stairs to the cold world of the city outside. 

With Quentin gone, for real now, Eliot didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He opted for putting undue energy into making his bed and tidying his apartment, even though Quentin had definitely already seen everything in it. After the calming ritual of scouring the plates and aggressively Swiffering his floor, Eliot practically fell into the shower, turning the heat all the way up. He leaned into the wall and breathed in the steam. God, he’d been a saint this morning—and he was already hard as the water began to pour over him. He stroked himself lazily at first—and then faster as he thought—of Quentin’s lips against his—of Quentin’s cock pressing against him in the night—the sounds he made as Eliot laced his fingers through his hair. He moaned softly when he came over his hand, bucking into it and thinking of the boy he’d kissed. Like he was fucking fourteen. 

After he’d dried off and successfully compartmentalized the extreme chaos Quentin had introduced into his life in less than the span of a single day, Eliot sat down and began to draw.


	13. Ran to Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link to my Pictures of You Queliot playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/hoko_onchi/playlist/4aGAlUeTZgOrO0A293Cso8?si=nywN1XrwT0ej7ozCn6Tb8Q
> 
> Margo is bossy. Quentin is shady. Eliot is smitten and still really a total mess. A bit of angst, a bit of fluff, a bit of well-earned smut. 
> 
> Major thanks to my best friend of 25+ish years who ships Queliot but doesn't usually delve into fanfic. She helped me with Eliot's playlist and keeps texting me when she's reading my chapters. Because she's literally the best. 
> 
> Big thanks to my life partner/best friend, who has encouraged me every step of the way. You are also the actual best. 
> 
> And to my ineffable friend who turned me into a fanfic ho, who I forced to watch The Magicians, who maybe pretends to love Queliot as much as I do, just because she's also the best. 
> 
> I'm a romance novelist by trade, and this is the first writing I've done in five years that is just for pleasure. It has been and continues to be one of the most wonderful things I've ever done for myself. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me. There's lots more Queliot to come. Comments and kudos always welcome. Love.

If anyone had asked Quentin what had happened in his fem theory class, he would have stared at them blankly. What even was graduate school when Eliot Waugh existed? 

Shit. This thing with Eliot was nothing. Nothing. There would be nothing after tonight with this guy because that’s just how Quentin’s life worked. Or didn’t work. Whichever. 

He’d happened to be at the right place at the right time, and this fucking— _Jesus Christ, he was so attractive_ —guy had needed someone to lean on in an emotional crisis. And now he needed—homework help. It was like—a little weird?—how Quentin’s emotions had gotten all tangled up in this... non-date. Maybe that was just Quentin. Alice had pointed that out often enough with her “overly attached” this and “too fucking needy” that. By the end, he’d felt like she was another one of his therapists, just an especially mean one.

So. This was _nothing._ No need to get all in his feelings. No need to get his hopes up. 

But still. He needed to get ready, like, no matter what. Fuck. He hadn’t had a real date in over a year—and okay, he wasn’t sure this qualified as an actual, real date. It wasn’t. He had mentally established that fact. But it was like date-adjacent? Sort of. He was helping a—frankly— _stupid hot_ guy he didn’t really know who had had been alternately flirtatious and sarcastic, had a panic attack (red flag? not for Quentin apparently), and had some idea that Q could provide assistance on a Fillory-related fashion project, of all things. So goddamned random. And maybe Eliot was also interested in kissing him again? Or? The possibilities washed over Quentin; a miasma of anxiety-tinged excitement. It thrummed in his veins like the charged air before an electrical storm.

He was barely paying attention as he made the seven-block hike from class back to his apartment, nearly careening into the street like, three and a half times. The motions were all automatic— _walk, turn left, walk, stairs, key_ —and Q was lost in his clamorous headspace, going through each word he’d said, over every touch and each lingering kiss, over all the ways it seemed so _dangerous_ —and felt so right. He was in a daze when he turned the doorknob to his room, vaguely aware that he needed to shower, that he smelled like sweat and coffee and... _man_. His room was his comfort zone, the one place in New York where he could be—

“Where the actual fuck have you been?”

_Jesus fuck._ Quentin stumbled backwards, nearly careening into the door behind him. "What the fuck?" 

Margo was sitting on his bed, watching him with shrewd, dark eyes, diminutive and fucking deadly. “Nice outfit.”

“Um, thanks.” Quentin bobbed his head and stared at the wall behind Margo, fully aware he was in deep shit. 

“Same one you wore yesterday.” She hopped down from her spot on the bed, stepping up to Quentin. She flicked his collar. “Same button-down. Same marginally acceptable sweater. Same khakis. And—” She took Quentin’s jaw in her small, cool hand. “This is unexpected.”

“What’s unexpected?” Quentin’s heart was pounding. Why he should be so scared of a woman who was ostensibly his closest friend in graduate school, who was barely over five feet tall, who was always on the look out for him despite her loud protestations against “emotional entanglements” was beyond him. But he was. She was the sharpest and most observant person he knew, and at that moment, he felt her looking into his fragile male soul and extracting the lewd visions of his post-coffee-shop activities. 

“Stubble burn.” She swiped a thumb over his chin. “And what’s this, puppy?” She nudged the collar of his button-down aside. “That’s a fucking hickey. And—oh, Mr. Coldwater—are those teeth marks? Well, shit. Looks like someone had a goddamn good night.”

“What—I—um—teeth marks?” Quentin cringed. He vaguely remembered Eliot biting him to demonstrate that he wanted to _eat him alive_. Quentin’s stomach leaped as Margo assessed him. 

“Either Alice hasn’t kept up with waxing her platinum pussy—”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Oh, Jesus Christ—”

“And she’s got a thing for biting that I really didn’t expect—or—”

Quentin groaned and flopped into his chair, flushing red and burying his face in his hands. 

“Or you went home with a _boy_ last night. And you— _slept over_. And he rubbed his five o’clock shadow all over your little baby face.” She looked at him expectantly. 

“Um—I didn’t—”

“Quentin, you smell like—” She bent toward him and took a deep whiff. 

“Please don’t smell me, Margo,” Quentin muttered into his hands. 

“Like fucking cologne. Something expensive. Tom Ford? Hm. I’d have to do further analysis. But I recognize—“

Quentin drew his legs up into the chair and sank into himself. “You’re hallucinating.”

“I don’t hallucinate Tom Ford.” She snaps her fingers. “Beau de Jour. I’d bet my dick on it—”

“I went to my study group like I said—I got tired and I—”

“You what? Rubbed your face all over the floor of the library, fell asleep there, and got bitten on the way home from school? And you must have stopped at Macy’s to spritz yourself with woodsy man scent.”

He groaned, mortified on approximately forty-seven different levels. “Margo—”

“Quentin. You spent the night with a boy last night. And I’d say you fucked him—but I dunno, you might not have. Lots of stubble burn and— _making out_ —not super chaste but with lots of _feelings_. Gross. Am I close?”

“Oh my God.”

“Q, honey, look at me.” Margo put a hand on his shoulder, and Quentin looked up at her. “You stood me up. Which is fine. But tell me you’re out with someone, okay? Don’t hide that shit. Own the fuck out of it. You want some dick? Go get dick. Don’t lie to me.”

“Okay,” he said, color rising in his cheeks. Because there was nothing else to say. It was Margo. 

“So, you going to tell me about this boy? Or are you going to leave me hanging?”

“He’s um. Well. He just needed help with a—project. For class.”

“And he demonstrated his gratitude with his cock? And his teeth?”

Quentin coughed, sputtering a little—because Margo had said the words ‘dick’ and ‘cock’ like seventeen times already, and now it was _all_ he could think about. “No. We um. Like you said. Lots of—you know.”

“No, Quentin. I don’t know.” 

“We hung out in his bed and kissed, okay?” Quentin snapped. “Are you happy?”

“Delighted,” she snarked, grinning at him. “Before I start bugging you for deets, I’m going to tell you something.”

“Hm? What?”

“Look, kid—”

“You’re eighteen months older than I am, Margo.”

“Look, my fucking— _peer_ —or whatever, I worry about you. Not that I really spend that much _time_ on worrying, don’t get me wrong. But Julia and I—”

“God, not both of you. You can’t just monitor my every move. I’m an adult—”

Margo ignored him. “Julia is now also my—” She waved her hand vaguely, like she was slightly disgusted with the whole situation. “— _friend_. And we both worry about you. We want you safe and sane and in a steady routine. You know how important that is for you. You’ve _said_ how important it is for you. You’ve _told_ me to keep you away from Alice so that you don’t lose your shit. You fucking told me you didn’t want to go back to the psych ward and do art therapy with nurse Gary.”

“They have therapy dogs sometimes. I do like that.” 

“Don’t joke about therapy dogs, puppy.”

Quentin nodded, thinking he might have better luck getting through this conversation if he slid onto the floor and hid under his bed. “I just can’t check in with you every five minutes if I have a date. Or whatever. Not really a date. You’re not my—mom.” His tone was a bit more petulant than he’d actually intended. And his mom would have given approximately zero fucks about his whereabouts. He wasn’t sure she actually knew where he went to graduate school.

“Look, honey—I’m nobody’s mom. Babies are soul-sucking parasites, and I’m never pushing a melon-sized head through my glorious cunt—”

“Thanks for the image—”

“Put yourself in my shoes, Q. If I had a study date with you—which I _did_ , I might add—and I missed it—and I didn’t respond to any of your texts for approximately sixteen hours, how would you feel about that?”

Quentin put his head back down on his knee, staring at his wall again. “Shitty. I’d be worried.”

“Yeah, ya would be. We don’t hang like that, Q. You look out for me. I look out for you. In my own way. Might be a little aggressive, but you get what you pay for when you board the Margo train.”

“Yeah, okay.” 

“So don’t ignore my texts even if that dick is coated in diamonds, _capisce_?”

“‘Kay.”

“Or I’m texting Julia.”

Quentin cringed. “Yeah, please don’t. I don’t need a whole extra lecture.”

“Good Q.” She ruffled his hair. It occurred to him that he was like Margo’s therapy dog, but he honestly didn’t mind most of the time since she was a secret nerd and was always down for binge-watching Battlestar while drinking moderately good wine. “Okay, we're done with feelings. Now, tell me, is he a nice boy, and are we seeing him again?”

Quentin paused, heart pounding. “He’s… really nice. And he’s funny. And. Um. And—I’m supposed to go help him with something tonight. And—he said he’d make dinner.”

“Ohhh, okay. Well, then. Get showered and let Mama get you dressed. I’m guessing we have at least one more acceptable set of clothing. Or I’ll have to go raid Penny’s scarf collection.”

Quentin snorted. “No thanks. I don't need like, an open vest either.”

“I might do it anyway just to fuck with him. That guy is a total cock. He did let me in… but just because he knew I’d yell at you.”

“God, he really is the worst,” Quentin said, his gut twisting and turning. He _was_ lying to Margo—by omission, anyway. As much as he loved Margo and _depended_ on her in the wake of losing Julia to Yale and Alice to… well, whatever Alice was doing, she often acted more like a big sister than a friend. Just like Julia. _Christ._ How did he manifest hot women in his life, only to find out that they wanted to braid his hair and give him Life Advice and a Queer Eye style makeover? At least Margo liked Quentin’s hair long. Otherwise, he knew his locks would be in trouble because he really _couldn’t_ say no to her. Because she was a fucking force of nature. 

His stomach lurched again as he thought of Eliot—lips and hands and heavy, throaty sighs and how he acted like he _wanted_ Quentin—for—what the fuck—he had absolutely no idea why—but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth unless that mouth was on his cock. _What?_ Quentin melted into his desk, face flushed, fire sparking and building just beneath his skin, as Margo fished through his drawers and flung jeans on his bed. 

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“Jim,” Quentin said automatically. He covered his head with his hands and spoke into the small, dark chamber he’d created in the crook of his elbow. He should just tell Margo _now_. Shit. But the words kept coming. “Jim Davis. He’s in my modern French lit seminar.” 

“He’s got like a 1950s sitcom name,” Margo said, pausing as if she were considering the worth of the fictional Jim Davis and his shitty name. “What’s he look like? What’s he studying? Where’d he go to undergrad?” The questions popped out of Margo’s mouth as she assessed Quentin’s disastrous clothing situation. 

_Shit shit shit._

“Um. He’s tall. Dark hair, dark eyes,” Quentin mumbled. “Um. He’s in comp lit too. And. He went to Rochester?”

“You think or you’re sure? Stop making everything sound like a question, or you’re never going to get any dick. Trust me.”

“I’m pretty sure. I didn’t really ask. But it was on a banner thing at his place.” Lies. He had no idea where the fuck Eliot went to undergrad, but it was as good a guess as any. Somewhere in the state, he guessed vaguely. He seemed like a New Yorker. 

“And is he a good choice?”

“Don’t know yet.” This was, for the most part, true, at least. “I’ll tell you when I find out.”

So what if he wanted to do something his friend deemed unhealthy? Or like, emotionally questionable? (Eliot was most likely unhealthy and definitely emotionally questionable, Quentin thought. Which was kinda hot, honestly.) What was graduate school for, if not making mistakes? Eliot seemed like a mistake worth making. Even if it was all just—homework help and a one-night stand (God, he hopeful about that part because he’d been way too well behaved for his own good last night).

And there was that almost otherworldly _pull_ he felt toward Eliot, something that he knew Margo wouldn’t understand. And anyway, he hadn’t texted yet. He might not even get to go over there—he might forget—

 _Bing_. His phone chirped from where it sat on the desk. A text window popped up—and Margo snatched it before Quentin could even pick it up. Quentin’s heart started pounding hard, blood rushing in his ears. Jesus—she was going to know—he’d say his name on the text—and then—well, he wasn’t sure. He really didn’t want to find out. He lunged forward, trying to grab it back, and Margo laughed. 

“Margo—come on—”

“No, fuck you, dickwad,” she said—not unaffectionately. “You stood me up. I get to see what big Jim has to say. 914 area code. Okay. Suburban guy.” She scanned the text as Quentin crumpled back into the chair and froze in place, bracing himself for her reaction.

“Margo—give me my phone—I can—” Explain? He couldn’t, not really. Fuck.

“‘Come over tonight at seven. Do you like risotto?’” Margo looked over at Quentin, appraising. “Fucking fancy guy, Q. Okay. We can work with Jim Davis. Making you risotto.”

Quentin knew he was a million shades of red, but relief rushed through him, profound and immediate. Eliot had been self-involved enough to assume Quentin would know who was texting. Thank God for emotionally questionable men. “Gimme my phone. I need to text him back.”

 _Bing._

Margo, of course, read the next message as well. “‘Red or white wine?’”

Quentin felt like he might melt into the floor. The thought of Eliot serving him _wine_ was just too goddamn much, and he honestly wished he could _actually_ talk to Margo without incurring her (moderately well-meaning) wrath. He should tell her now. He should tell her—

Margo was—Margo was _typing_. 

“Margo— _no!_ Stop!” He moved to grab his phone again, but she was really fucking quick. 

She cackled, clutching the phone and still typing. There was the sound of a message being sent. And then—more horrifying—

 _Bing_.

Margo was laughing hard now. “Oh man, he’s _flirty_. Okay Mister Jim Davis, two can play at this game.” She typed a few more words, even as Quentin lunged at her, nearly knocking her onto the bed. She fell back, laughing and dragging Quentin down with her, tossing his phone at his face. “Here you go, you big charmer. Somebody has a crush on you. You’re fucking welcome, by the way. Your texts wouldn’t have been nearly as suggestive as mine.”

 _Suggestive?_ Quentin opened the message window.

 **Unknown Number:** _Red or white wine?_

 **Quentin:** I luv risotto. In fact, I’ll take whatever you want to give me ;) But white wine with risotto—I’m not a heathen

 **Quentin:** 🍆

“Oh my God, Margo—Jesus Christ. I’m going to—help him with a thing—and maybe eat pasta—or rice, or whatever the fuck risotto actually is—”

She was laughing hard now. “It’s rice, moron—”

Quentin looked back at the mortifying string of texts and Margo’s unsolicited responses. Oh fuck. An eggplant emoji? Jesus.

 **Unknown Number:** been thinking abt you all day. wonder if u can take everything I want to give

 **Quentin:** you’ll find out after 7 tonite

 **Unknown Number:** i’m looking so, so forward to it u have no idea

Quentin weakly dropped his phone on the mattress and hid under his pillow, lying on top of all the clothes Margo had laid out on his bed. He guessed he was grateful that the first text didn’t say, “Hi it’s Eliot; save this number as Eliot Waugh.” That was something he had going for him. Quentin would have been fucking _normal_ in his text messages, though. Like “I like risotto and any wine. See you at seven.” No emojis or innuendo. Clean texts. Normal texts. 

“Q, get out of your head.” Margo shoved a pair of jeans in his direction. “These fit you reasonably well. And the Alice sweater is clean, and it looks good on you. You can get back at her by letting this dude rail you while you’re wearing it.”

“Fucccckkk,” he moaned into his sheets.

“Wear the cute professor blazer with the patches on the elbows and carry a fucking umbrella instead of wearing this travesty of a coat. Now.” She clapped. “Wash yourself. Shave. Moisturize. I’m going to go see if Penny has any reasonable cologne or hair product. And then—I’m going to actually go prepare for this project with my shit head of a partner—even though he’s probably doing fuck all for it—I’ll have Eliot’s dick on a platter if he doesn’t do his share, I swear to Christ.”

Quentin stifled another groan, his pulse pounding at the mention of Eliot’s name. “Okay,” he managed. 

“Alright, Q. Be safe. Use protection. And text me before you pass out after getting boned, okay?”

Quentin lifted his head from under the pillow and nodded weakly. “I promise.”

She ruffled his hair again and walked out of his room. She could hear her rifling through Penny’s stuff in the bathroom, shouting about how she was leaving out the shit he was going to need and to just put it back before Penny got home so he didn’t pummel Quentin within an inch of his life before he could get laid. “Bye, honey,” he heard her say. The door closed behind her. Q was left with a set of instructions that he was, in fact, planning to follow. Because she was Margo—and she was always looking out for him, for reasons he couldn’t really fathom a lot of the time. 

While Margo Hanson was relentlessly extroverted and overwhelming, Quentin knew she didn’t give the weight of her concern to just anyone. He didn’t know how he’d earned it. He looked in the mirror at himself as he shaved, wondering what he’d done in another life to earn her friendship. It must have been something good. 

He vowed—if there was anything, like, real with Eliot (as unlikely as that was)—he’d tell Margo. Really, as soon as possible. He kind of guessed he’d never be having that conversation. In all likelihood, Eliot would stop texting after this and fade into the background of Quentin’s congested mind.

But if it was—like, anything at all—he knew he’d find a way to make things better between the two of them. There was a rightness, he felt, to that idea. 

***

The door to the old apartment building was open when Quentin strolled in with his clean hair and his jacket with the plaid patches on the elbows. Margo was right. It looked—well, it looked acceptable. And that was, perhaps, the best he could do in a situation like this. As he hiked up the stairs (it was apartment three—wasn’t it?), he heard footsteps and music—and someone singing (it was definitely apartment three, and that’s where the music was coming from). 

He caught snippets of the lyrics and music, overpowered by the strong tenor of the singing voice (was that Eliot?). The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end, and he rested one hand on the railing of the staircase, listening.

“I can't explain the state that I'm in… the state of my heart, he was my best friend… All of my powers, day after day… I can tell you, we swaggered and swayed… I can tell you, the telling gets old…” There was a clattering of dishes, more footsteps. “Terrible sting and terrible storm… I can tell you the day we were born… My friend is gone, he ran away… I can tell you, I love him each day…” 

It was... pure and lovely, and it touched on something at the outer reaches of his mind. It was almost as if he had a memory of the words and that same voice, rising and falling. If he closed his eyes, it sounded rich and warm, like _home_. But that couldn’t be right. He’d never even heard Eliot sing, not until just now.

The voice faded, and the song hit its final chords. Quentin swallowed hard and knocked on the door. A wave of anxiety crested through him, and he imagined falling back down the stairs, weighted down by his messenger bag and the books inside. But he stayed steady, and the door opened in the manner that doors usually do. And behind that door was Eliot, and Eliot smiled. He was stunning—dressed like he'd first seen him, tall and resplendent in his waistcoat and tie, his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were— _God_. So good. 

“Q, hey—” Eliot grabbed his hand and pulled him in, and Quentin was just barely aware that he’d called him ‘Q,’ like really only Julia and Margo did. He decided, in the very back of his brain, as Eliot pulled him into an embrace, that it sounded exactly the way it should on Eliot’s lips. But then again, most anything would.

“Eliot—hi.”

Eliot pulled him in close and bent down to kiss him, taking Quentin’s face in his hands, his thumbs tracing circles over his jawline. Quentin couldn’t help the slip of a moan that came from him. The kiss—lingering and slow, open-mouthed and full of hidden promises—was wholly unexpected. 

Quentin, being Quentin, had really intended to come eat the whatever— _risotto_ —thing Eliot was making, drink wine, look at like, fashion descriptions in the books he brought and then maybe—he had lots of thoughts about the _maybe_ of things. He shouldn’t have been terribly surprised at the warmth of Eliot’s lips and hand and the press of his body, given the activities of the previous evening. But this was Quentin. He was no god of sensuality, and any romantic situation he stumbled into was usually awkward and ultimately unrewarding. But this—he thought—was not the experience of someone like Eliot Waugh. Eliot did Shakespearean tragedy, coming-home-from-the-Great-War, Nicholas Sparks movie-style kisses, and he did them with ease and aplomb. 

As Eliot kissed him, hands tangled in Quentin’s hair, strong fingers roaming over his neck and down the length of his spine, Quentin’s consciousness slipped into free fall. His eyes closed and he gave himself to teeth and tongue and the soft touch of skin. Eliot tasted of butter and wine and smelled faintly of tobacco and citrus-sage and the supple, rich hints of a home-cooked meal. If Eliot let him go, he thought vaguely, brain buzzing and lips bitten, Quentin might crumple to the floor and remain there forever. 

Eliot pulled away, breathing heavily. He kissed Quentin once more, quick and chaste this time. “Mustn’t burn the risotto.”

“No that would be, um, not super ideal, I guess.” Quentin sat down somewhat shakily at Eliot’s tiny green formica table, where he’d eaten just that morning, wondering if he should have brought flowers or—fucking—cake?—or something. Is that a thing people did? The table was set with two plates—and linen napkins—and a candle, which was _lit._ He watched Eliot’s lean form as he expertly stirred and lifted the risotto. 

“It has—ah—pancetta and wild mushrooms,” Eliot said, taking a sip of the wine glass at his side. 

“I’m vegan,” Quentin said.

Eliot turned, still holding his wine and looking momentarily horrified. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I am,” Quentin said, smiling. There was a twist in the very center of his chest as he met Eliot’s gaze. “Pancetta is like fancy bacon, right?”

A smile teased across Eliot’s face. “It’s fancy bacon. I thought you weren’t a heathen.”

Quentin felt color creeping over his cheeks, and he nervously brushed his hair away from his face. “About that. Margo got hold of my phone—”

“Ah.” Eliot’s face fell just a little. 

“I mean—I mean to say—I am definitely a heathen, and I know fuck all about wine. The rest was—she definitely got my point—across.”

“I’m going to just assume she had no idea who she was texting.”

“No—I mean—I—uh—” 

“It’s fine. I’ll be your dirty little secret. She thinks I’m horrible.” Eliot shrugged as if this didn’t bother him in the slightest. It was clear that it did.

“Um—what was that song—I heard you singing? I think I recognized it but—”

“The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us.”

Quentin laughed. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Yeah, it’s Sufjan Stevens. He’s _my dirty little secret_.” Eliot stirred the risotto again, removing it from the small gas flame on the stove. “My mom let me get the album in high school because she thought it was Christian music. I mean, it’s definitely about, God or whatever, and the universe in a basic sense. But his music is also very, very queer. I’m usually more of a—80s new wave, musical theater, ironic pop music connoisseur. But I have a soft spot for Sufjan. He made me not feel so alone.”

“I think maybe my friend Julia had that album. Like when albums were a thing.”

“They’re still a thing. They just exist in the nebulous ether. I swear to you, though—analyzing song lyrics from the CD insert is a lost art.”

“Definitely. I remember memorizing everything in the Coldplay and Counting Crows album inserts.”

Eliot groaned and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Please rewind and erase that entire sentence from my memory.”

Quentin started laughing. “That bad? I won’t go over my whole Taylor Swift thing—”

“Shhhh. I’m trying to mentally replace all of those words with something that doesn’t completely ruin your appeal.”

“I’m appealing?” The rain picked up again, hitting the windows above Eliot's tiny kitchenette. It was biting cold outside, but the room was warm and filled with the scent of browned butter. 

“Less so, now,” Eliot said, but he was smiling. “Definitely still exceptionally cute.” He put the plates on the table with two glasses of Riesling and sat down across from Quentin, which suddenly made everything feel a thousand times more real. Eliot’s eyes rested on him, and it felt like—like he might be living in a movie. 

Quentin took a gulp of his wine and almost choked on it. “Thank you, really. I usually just eat ramen—or box macaroni and cheese—”

“Vile,” Eliot said, sipping his wine. “I’m glad I could bring you a bit of culture.”

The two of them chatted, talking around the events of last night and the irresistible, soul-crushing kiss, the Margo-shaped drama, and all the many things that Quentin assumed hit at the heart of Eliot’s wounds (yes, Quentin had been to enough therapy that he thought he qualified as a fairly astute armchair psychologist). They chatted, mostly, about Eliot’s designs—Eliot showing them off and Quentin complimenting them and making suggestions based on his knowledge of high-fantasy style fashion (limited—but far greater than his knowledge of _actual_ fashion). Quentin was really—really—impressed.

"You are like, truly fucking talented," Quentin said. 

He preened as he flipped through the portfolio of sketches on his tablet. He landed on a dress design—a ballgown, kind of, with red and gold patterned accents, and a kind of corset thing, something that looked less restrictive and more _powerful_. "This is a coronation dress." 

"For the High Queen?"

"High King, High Queen. Either way. There's definitely going to be a crown.”

Quentin laughed, taking another long sip of wine. "Yeah I guess it doesn't really say a woman _can't_ be High King. Why the fuck not?"

“Indeed. Why the fuck not?” 

Quentin savored the risotto and the sharp, crisp wine, the flavors melting over his tongue. “Margo’s going to love this. All of it.” He wasn’t quite drunk enough to tell Eliot that she thought he was doing fuck all. 

“Hope so,” Eliot said quietly. 

“This is incredible. So creative. Really, El.” 

Something indiscernible passed over Eliot’s features, but it was gone in a flash. “Looks like we’re out of wine.” He reached to the refrigerator, which was right behind him because it was fucking Manhattan, and all studio apartments were postage stamps, and he produced another bottle of Riesling.

_Why the fuck not?_

They chatted as they ate and drank, Eliot drawing closer to Quentin in the small space. Their knees touched; Eliot brushed his hand against Quentin’s, sending a shock to his core. One kiss, one touch—and he was unspooled, cracked open. 

( _It had to be the wine._ )

( _It wasn’t the wine._ )

He barely knew what he was saying between the wine and the flicker of the candle, the rain coming down hard outside, and the shape of Eliot’s mouth, the long cut of his jaw, the way his loose curls fell over his face.

There was wine and music—The Cure and Depèche Mode, Hot Chip and the Pet Shop Boys, Hot Chip and Little Dragon, Madonna and Whitney Houston and Beyonce and Rihanna, and a song every now and again from Hamilton (which Eliot felt was a good complement to risotto). After they started a third bottle of chilled Riesling, Eliot pulled Quentin up despite his halfhearted protests ( _Nonono I definitely can’t dance_ ) and spun him around until he landed perfectly in the crook of Eliot’s arms as ‘All My Friends’ by LCD Soundsystem started to play. 

“I actually know this song,” Quentin said, drunk enough to lean against Eliot’s chest, against the cool fabric of the vest—like a light gold color—that made him look so damn good. He was wearing a paisley purple-hued tie that would have made anyone else in the known universe look like a Boomer dad at a family style buffet after church—but on Eliot, it looked like... a tie made of sex. The thought made Quentin laugh, which made Eliot laugh, and they spun together, that baffling wash of recollection coming over Quentin, flooding his senses. This time, it was slower and more pleasant, cocooning him in a warm cloud of contentment. 

_It was probably just the wine. Right?_

“I wouldn’t trade one stupid decision for another five years of life,” Eliot sang, pressing his lips to Quentin’s forehead. They swayed, slower now, and Quentin didn’t really know if his feet were moving. Quentin had always fucking hated dancing. He always felt like the loser at the middle school dance, sitting apart from everyone, lonely and unmoving and ensconced in his hormonal cloud of bisexual panic (a pretty accurate description of entire youth, to be honest). But this—this he could do forever. He felt safe and small and _held_ and known.

Eliot tipped Quentin’s head up toward him, gazing at him with those deep hazel eyes. He placed a light kiss on Quentin’s lips before deepening it, licking into him, and making Q’s busy thoughts still and go blank. “What do you want, Q?” 

The cadence, the words, the gruffness of his voice... they felt like a memory, somewhere bone-deep inside of him, pulsing just beyond his reach. Maybe this was just what it felt like when things were just right—right person, right evening, right amount of wine. That made sense, didn’t it?

“Mm, take me to bed,” Quentin said, giddy. It was a terrible idea. Awful, really. That’s part of what made it so marvelous. “Eat me alive.”

Eliot grinned, a hungry look crossing his features. “My pleasure.” He pulled Quentin across the room, turning him and pressing him against the edge of the freshly made bed. 

Quentin’s fingers fumbled against the buttons of Eliot’s—let’s face it, overly complicated and honestly annoying—vest. “You have too many layers.”

“Adds to my mystique.” Eliot took Quentin’s hands and placed them on his waist, undoing each of his own buttons with dexterous fingers, his eyes dark and focused on Quentin. He shed the vest and loosened his tie, pulling it off and tossing it to the floor, which was _holy shit_ , illegally hot. 

“So sexy,” Quentin said, kind of giggling because it wasn’t something he said—but God, was it ever true. Nothing had been so true in his life. Eliot pressed himself against Quentin, kissing him—brutally this time, biting at his lip and pulling off his own shirt and belt. Quentin could feel the length of Eliot’s cock, insistently hard and close and huge, pressing against his thigh—and he found he couldn’t use his hands or really remember what he was supposed to do with them. 

Quentin thought, dimly, that he should he should take off his sweater, and he tried to—getting it stuck over his head and dissolving into laughter as Eliot pulled it off and made quick work of the blue striped button down. Strong hands explored the planes of his body; lips found his neck and sucked ever so slightly at his pulse point and—Eliot, Eliot, _Eliot_ —was touching him, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down. He was exposed, his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers. Eliot palmed Quentin’s cock, placing kisses over his neck, tongue traveling over his collarbone. Quentin groaned, tipping his head back, closing his eyes, seeing stars, feeling nothing but the hand slipping beneath his waistband and touching him, stroking him deftly, spreading liquid fire through his body. 

He was vaguely aware of trying to fumble with the button of Eliot’s trousers, Eliot pushing his hand away. “No,” he murmured, soft and close and hot against Quentin’s ear. “Let me take care of you.” 

Quentin could only moan in response. The sentence was a simple one—but the way he said it, rough and broken, held the promise of both depravity and tenderness. It was too much and not enough and hit all the longing he held within himself, deep and secret and buried. Eliot shattered those hidden spaces with his mouth, his hands, the words his voice made so filthy and so exquisite. 

To say that Quentin didn’t quite believe that any of this could happen would have been an understatement. Good things like this, the strong touch of hands against his thighs, the heat and depth of the aching kisses against his mouth—yes, this was what he’d hoped for, but it was, in the course of one day, far more than he could process. Eliot’s deft hands gripping and expertly stroking him as his body thrust toward him, reflexive and needy, were both wholly foreign and tinged with the very same nostalgia that Eliot had describe to him the night before. Quentin was shaken, gasping and moaning, crying out as he wrapped his arms around Eliot’s neck, the pleasure building inside of him, from the very foundation of his body, his soul. Just as he neared the brink, Eliot pulled back and knelt before him, shoving his boxers the rest of the way down to the floor and exposing Quentin fully. 

“Look at you,” Eliot murmured. “So pretty.” 

Quentin was trying to think of something to say, some way to respond, but it was impossible to come up with anything because Eliot was gripping his cock, tracing his fingers over the base, his other hand gripping Quentin’s ass. 

“Mm—I—” he managed to get out, nonsensically. And then Eliot took him in his mouth, and all the breath left his body. Eyes closed, fingers threading through silky curls, Quentin keened and moaned, lost in sensations of Eliot’s attentions, wet and hot and so, so skilled. Eliot’s tongue swiped over the head of Quentin’s cock and down over his shaft before Eliot took him in his mouth again, swallowing him to the root. Quentin’s legs shook, toes curling—he wasn’t going to last—wasn’t going to get everything he wanted—and he wanted, in that moment, _everything_ , all of Eliot, endlessly. 

A stray thought hit Quentin that he wanted it to be simple this time between them, uncomplicated, like it had been for all those years. He almost laughed at the senseless thought as Eliot took him back to his throat again and again, faster now, unrelenting, bringing him to the edge again. 

“Oh fuck, Eliot,” he breathed, his voice thick. He repeated Eliot’s name again and again, like a prayer, gasping and thrusting. The blinding heat tightened inside of him, balls drawing up. He groaned pathetically, hands clutching at the man before him, as he came, pulsing in his mouth. When he looked down, Eliot was gazing back, dark and intense, as Quentin thrust forward once more and let go fully, sensitive and spent and breathless and boneless. He fell against the bed as Eliot swiped his tongue over the head of his cock once more. Quentin was hazily aware of Eliot lying down beside him and pulling him in against the soft fuzz of his chest. There was a part of Quentin that felt like sobbing, but he breathed in and out, steady and soothing.

“I’ve got you,” Eliot said, bringing him up and kissing him. Quentin tasted himself on Eliot’s tongue, salty and alkaline. The thought of it made his brain fizz and prickle, and he kissed Eliot back, darting his tongue into Eliot's mouth, both sated and hungry. Wanting. He reached down for the offending trouser button again.

“Take a beat,” Eliot mumbled. “Relax—”

“What if I need to relax with your cock out?” Quentin laughed and somehow got his hands to function, pulling the rest of Eliot’s clothing off and throwing it to the floor. 

“Twist my arm,” he murmured. He was so, so hard. And lean and willowy and long.

Quentin moved closer to Eliot, gripping his cock and stroking lazily. “God, you’re so big.” 

Eliot smiled against him, kissing his cheek and sighing as Quentin touched him. “Yeah? You like that?”

“Yeah, I sure as fuck do,” Quentin breathed. “What do you want, El? You asked me. I wanna know.”

Eliot groaned, sounding helpless and raw and not at all like a walking disaster who was planning to eat him alive. “Talk to me,” he murmured. “Kiss me. Touch me.”

Quentin kissed him, dipping his tongue into Eliot’s mouth in time with his strokes. “Eliot,” he whispered, trying the name on his tongue again. He kissed his jaw, rubbing his thumb over Eliot’s slit, brushing a bead of precum over his tip. “God, you’re so beautiful… you made me feel so good,” he babbled, hoping that these were the correct words, the exact things he needed to say to make sure everything was right, that they were safe and kept. “I wanted you when I saw you—I wanted you so much. I knew you’d make me feel so good—and I wanted to touch you—feel you—just like this—”

“Oh, God, Q—” Eliot thrust into his hand, fucking up into it rhythmically, their bodies slick with sweat and pressed together. Quentin had nearly zero experience with guys, but he felt his hand moving in a steady rhythm he knew Eliot would like, that would make him come. They were both moving faster now, and Quentin knew he was getting closer.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” he murmured, stroking faster. “Wanna taste you. You want that?” The words all felt like they were coming from a different person, a separate consciousness in the same room, someone who was Quentin but also not Quentin. Quentin wasn’t secure when he spoke. He didn’t talk dirty. But it was like Eliot had clarified his desire and made it whole, a thing without shame. 

“Please,” Eliot whispered.

Quentin moved down and pushed Eliot back on the bed, caressing his cock now, languid and slow. Eliot watched him, rapt, as he descended and took what he could of Eliot’s cock, holding him at the base as he licked and sucked. Quentin felt him thrust upward, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling, moving him just as Eliot wanted, making him moan against the smooth skin of Eliot’s cock. There was a guttural groan, a shifting of hips and long legs, and he was tasting him—sharp and bitter, cock pulsing against his tongue, the back of his throat. The air felt heady and filled with intention and something else, something light and buzzing and radiating energy. His body filled with it as he brought Eliot through his peak. He hummed against Eliot, sucking out every last drop and stopping only as Eliot pulled him away, laughing. It felt like there were waves coming off of them, weird and wild and comforting. Hearth and home and wholeness. 

They lay together, breathing heavy in the atmosphere around them. Outside, a street lamp flickered and went off, and the rain picked up.

“Where’d you learn to do that, Mr. ‘Inexperienced’?”

“Prep school?” Quentin quipped as Eliot pulled him in again. The electricity in the air seemed to fade and settle, their breath and bodies returning to normal. “Just kidding. I—um—really have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Fooled me,” Eliot said, nuzzling against Quentin’s neck and running his fingers through his hair. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He buried his face in Quentin’s hair and kissed down the line of his ear.

“You’re crazy.” Quentin flushed from the attention, from the compliment that really—he didn’t believe. 

“You have no idea, do you?”

“I mean, not really. No. I figure I just really lucked out, I guess.”

“You definitely got lucky,” Eliot said. “I plan to make you lucky again. But first, sleep.”

Quentin tried not to press further into his own insecurities as he weighed Eliot’s words. He tested out the idea of being ‘gorgeous’ ( _no_ ), trying to sit with it, trying to see why this all had happened, and _what_ exactly had happened. I mean, holy shit, this couldn’t be normal. Why did it all make so much sense and none at all? So true and real and yet so far away, so faded.

“Stop thinking, Q,” Eliot murmured. He moved their bodies so he cradled Quentin against him, their limbs tangled together. He kissed Quentin, soft and smooth, until his mind went pleasantly numb. Until he fell asleep, buried in Eliot’s arms.


	14. Stone White/So Delicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to run out of lyrics for chapter titles and will move on to the rest of Disintegration. So you know. Here we are.
> 
> We're on day four of quarantine home with both kids. So chapters will be either slower or shorter. I am keeping on writing these guys for my own sanity. So this chapter is indulgent as fuck and doesn't move the plot a whole bunch, but I enjoyed the fuck out of writing it. These two couldn't keep their hands off each other, and who am I to spit in the face of destiny (which we all know is bullshit, but you know)?
> 
> I also wanted to revisit that scene in 39 Graves, you know the one. Rewatching the first season made me realize how bad El had it for Q, and why he reacted exactly the way he did after The Threesome. He's not only grieving--he's guilty. And he's hurt. And he feels like he ruined something he'd wanted but didn't know he could have. Contrast that with our "current day" El, whose trauma is different, whose impulses are terribly uncontrollable, and who is suffering from a dual consciousness overload. He hasn't integrated his memories yet, because... because he's Eliot.
> 
> More soon.
> 
> No triggers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re into that kind of thing, follow me on tumblr: https://hoko-onchi-writes.tumblr.com/

~Eliot~ 

_“It’s not funny, and it’s not a joke.”_

_“But it truly is, Quentin.”_

_Quentin gave him a deadly look, which was—so strange. Like a very angry… kitten. That thought _would_ have been funny in and of itself, if everything weren’t irreparably fucked up. _

_He heard himself replying, airily noting that Quentin had a right to be mad. He did. Didn’t he? It wasn’t anything that Quentin had wanted. Not really. It was wine and emotion bottles and Alice, well, being Alice. She was really sort of awful, wasn’t she? Quentin, mysteriously, didn’t think so._

_He lit another cigarette. And he drank. It was whiskey this time, four fingers. It felt punishing enough for a morning like this._

_The truth of it—the part that was the real joke—was that Eliot had sort of a hopeless crush on Quentin from the moment he saw him walking across the Sea at Brakebills. His face was so bewildered and anxious and lovely with his big brown eyes and his cute little blazer and his earnest questions._

_And oh, he’d been so sweet and open and vulnerable when he’d been accepted, hanging onto Eliot and Margo unquestioningly. And then it was, well, something more than that—he’d become a friend, a real one, after all the flirting that Eliot knew fell on deaf ears. And then, Alice. Eliot’s was a doomed attraction. An ache that Eliot pushed to the edges of his psyche. Because Quentin was important. Because he wanted good things for Q. So for Eliot, it couldn’t be a thing. It wasn’t a thing._

__Straight boys and their cute blazers._ _

_That thing, the little nagging pull he felt when he saw Quentin, he’d quashed it for the most part when he met Mike. And then, well. So much since then. In so short a time._

_He drank and sank down on the couch. Bambi wasn’t apologetic. She was pissed. That would have been amusing in its own way—Quentin getting mad about having sex with Margo. Ridiculous. Hilarious. It was a joke, just one he couldn’t find the strength to laugh at._

_But it was sort of a betrayal, wasn’t it? Eliot had wanted this. He’d made it manifest. He’d thought about it so many times, and it had fallen into bed, right next to him._

_And God, it was so good. Quentin and his lean, lithe body, eager and full of so much—lust—and the soft, sighing sounds he made when Eliot tangled his fingers in Quentin’s hair and pulled—hungry little moans, like he’d been dying, aching to kiss Eliot. And he’d gotten Eliot off with a mixture of unexpected enthusiasm and wine-fueled determination. (Which, well. Maybe he wasn’t 100% straight.) It was good; it was so, so good. That made it worse._

_“I’m sorry,” he said, sometime later after Margo had stormed out and Quentin had ambled back in, dumbstruck and listless. “For what it’s worth.”_

_“Really, it’s whatever. Sorry I said you ruined my life. It was—it was my mistake, too.”_

_Eliot flinched at the word. Mistake. It was the word a lot of guys used the morning after with him. He’d heard it all before. _Accident. Experiment. Don’t tell anyone, okay?__

_Q didn’t mean it that way, not really._

_“But I—I took advantage of you—” He stopped and lit another cigarette._

_Quentin gave a sharp little laugh and cracked his knuckles, not looking at Eliot. “You didn’t.”_

_Eliot finished off his drink, pouring it into the hole that was growing inside of him, the vulnerable, sick place that had cracked open when he’d had to kill Mike. When he learned that everything he’d wanted, everything he’d invested was all a horrible lie. And now. Quentin. “No—I’m trying to tell you—”_

_“I didn’t do anything I didn’t already want to do, El.”_

_“No, really, Q—” He couldn’t make more words come out. His hangover was easing off; he was drunk now. Really pretty drunk. That was good. That was better than sober._

_“I don’t have time for this right now,” Quentin said. He got up and walked out in his slumped, anxious, Quentin-ish way, giving no more thought to Eliot. He was on his way to find Alice, he supposed, to self-immolate or whatever it was that Quentin thought he needed to do to pay penance. Or be bitchy at her for fucking Penny? Either way._

_A great fucking cosmic joke. And then the whole almost-certain looming-death thing that was happening. Eliot had fucked up. Again. Was anyone surprised?_

_If it was ever going to happen with Quentin, he hadn’t meant for it to happen like _this_._

__  
***  
To say that Eliot was still very fucking confused would be the understatement of the goddamn multiverse. Fuck. 

He woke with a start, gasping, the jagged wound at the back of his head throbbing violently. He had that throaty, panicky feeling—the sickening images of Quentin and his self-righteous anger and his _hands_ and his _mouth_ —and a world that was right but didn’t seem right. His heart pounded hard as he blinked his way awake.

Where the fuck— _was_ he? This wasn’t his room at The Cottage. Same bed, though. Different… everything else. Traffic on the streets outside, a noisily buzzing refrigerator and click of of a radiator and an ugly table strewn with the evidence of a wine-soaked rendezvous. 

And he—this wasn’t his apartment?—but these throw pillows were definitely his—but— _oh_ —there was Quentin. He knew Quentin. He was the darling first-year boy with the expressive brows and the deep-set eyes and the pouty-downturned mouth that could go from tragic to bitchy in an instant. A nice little body and terribly bland clothes that never fit him right—black button downs too long in the sleeves, hoodies with the sleeves worn out from tugging, jeans and khakis he’d probably picked up from the clearance bin at Target. That was all Eliot’s kryptonite for reasons he couldn’t fully explain. It was dorky and enchanting and weirdly _hot_. Quentin had gotten into this habit of barging into Eliot’s room and crashing on his bed, brain broken and moping, while Eliot played music and coifed his hair. It was an easy, sweet kind of friendship. Not to say that Eliot didn’t _look_ at his sprawled body or the long, thick hair framing his face and think about all the possibilities. (And later, he’d jerk off in the shower or in bed after Quentin went to class, thinking of the pout of his lips, his tight, small body, the soft sighs he made when he was talking, how Eliot could make him sound, given the time. He was just a man, after all. Sue him for not being able to resist certain thoughts about Quentin Coldwater.)

_Straight boys. A tragedy._

But _this_ Quentin was tucked in right at Eliot’s shoulder, like he was made to fit right there, velvety skin soft and hot and _close_. He reached down and brushed the hair away from Quentin’s face, tracing his finger over the strong jaw, up over the shell of his ear. Quentin shivered and moved a little, his breath warm against Eliot’s neck. Shifting in his sleep, he smiled. _Dimples._ They should be illegal. Or restricted, at the very least. Because they made Eliot _dizzy_ with stomach-twisting, spine-tingling, body-wilting _need._

How _had_ he gotten Quentin into bed?

Quentin’s dark eyelashes fluttered, and he drew in closer to Eliot’s body, sleepily kissing at his neck, his pulse point, the sensitive spot just behind his ear. Eliot moaned, moving one leg over Quentin’s hip as Q licked and nibbled and did all sorts of things he shouldn’t even be able to do with his tongue. _Illegal_.

“Mmm, El,” he murmured, “You taste so good.”

_So. This Quentin probably wasn’t all that straight, either. He had to reevaluate a lot of his assumptions._

Eliot’s head was fuzzy and hazy from wine and the intoxicating touch of the boy tangled between his legs, whose cock was getting hard just from putting his mouth and tongue to Eliot’s body. Just from tasting him. Jesus Christ. Quentin’s hands traced over his skin, exploring, resting on his ass and sending chills over Eliot’s skin. His thumb traced circles over the small of Eliot’s back, honey-slow and careful. 

Had there been dancing? And he thought maybe they’d smoked one of Josh’s joints after dinner, but he couldn’t quite remember. There were definitely blow jobs—and Quentin’s uncanny skill at performing said act. The circumstances weren’t entirely clear to him, but Q was naked and wrapped up in Eliot and kissing him, his tongue darting over his skin and down toward his nipple and _oh_ —

Quentin’s mouth moved over him, frantic and searching, covering Eliot’s bare skin and lighting him up from the inside. The idea of who and where he was might have been hard to grasp at the moment, but everything else was _perfectly clear_.

“Good morning, Quentin.” He brushed his fingers through Quentin’s hair, and Q made the loveliest little breathy moan, his eyes flicking up to Eliot. 

“M-morning,” Quentin mumbled. Before Eliot knew what was happening (okay, he really didn’t know any of what was happening, but he was going to roll with it, okay?), Quentin had surged up and kissed him like he was starved, greedy and searing hot, tongue slipping inside his mouth, teeth scraping his bottom lip. And Eliot kissed him back, slow, painfully slow, savoring all of it, the Quentin he’d always wanted, the warm, clutching closeness of him, groaning softly, his fingers automatically seeking Quentin’s hair (God, why did Q’s hair drive him so fucking crazy?). Quentin’s fingers dug in at his hip, and his breath hitched in his throat. He groaned and kissed and bit at Quentin’s mouth, and Quentin laughed a little bit against him, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d get that reaction, like he couldn’t quite believe any of it. (Eliot didn’t really believe it, either.)

“I need to go—to—” Quentin mumbled against Eliot’s lips, “—class—it’s—Thursday—”

Eliot kissed the foolishness out of Quentin and his _Thursday classes._ Please, who actually went to class on Thursday? “Skip it. Stay in bed with me.”

“That offer is— _God_ —so good—” Quentin gasped, the full, hot length of him against Eliot’s thigh. “But—I gotta—it’s my comp lit seminar—”

_Comp lit seminar?_

“But you’re at—” Eliot stopped himself. He kissed Quentin again, closing his eyes and sinking into Quentin’s lips, into reality—this more solid reality, the one with the Manhattan apartment and the little green table. Where he and Quentin had just met, and they had taken things a little fast, sure. Maybe a lot fast. 

(That’s how it had been with Mike. _Stop._ That had been a mistake. This wasn’t. Was it?)

Those other imaginings—they were like a faded tapestry that lay over the surface of his reality. If he concentrated hard enough, he could lift it away and remember. He’d made dinner for Quentin and didn’t have to work at _all_ to get him in bed, which wasn’t all that surprising because Eliot was Eliot, and he had a way of, well. Getting what he wanted once he had a not-so-straight boy in his room. And this Quentin wasn’t straight. (Okay, the other one wasn’t really either? It was confusing and probably bi erasure like Twitter kept telling him, so—that was a thing he needed to think more about. The more confusing thing was having distinct memories—images?—of two Quentins—and possibly a third. And they all liked _dick,_ Eliot’s in particular, which was really the important thing right now. And he could choose to focus on that.)

“But you’re at my place right now. And—when’s your class?” Eliot tried to sound smooth. He was Eliot, and he could handle all of this. The memory shenanigans and the dreamy, puppyish boy who _wanted_ him. 

Quentin fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it but somehow still pressed—hard—into Eliot. “It’s at eleven. It’s ten right now. Do you—do you wanna fuck me?”

Eliot’s brain short circuited. “What?” 

Quentin lifted his hands to Eliot’s face, brushing his thumbs along his jawline, brushing his lips against Eliot’s. “I said—do you want to fuck me? Because—I’d really like you to—fuck me.” Quentin was pink cheeked, mouth open, voice low and husky and halting and—perfect, goddamn perfect. And God, he was hard. They both were. His stomach swooped. Eliot wanted to fucking _devour_ him. It would be so goddamn good and he’d get to tell Q what a good boy he was—

“Yeah, you’d like that?” Eliot whispered. He brushed a thumb against Quentin’s lip, and he whined softly. Eliot laughed, soft. God, this Quentin was kind of a slut. In really the most excellent way. “You want my big cock? Think it can fit?” 

Quentin made a quiet, whimpering sound, and he pressed his lips against his chest. “Yeah. I wanna—I wanna try. It’s just so—God, I want you. Maybe time for a quickie—”

 _God._ This boy was going to be the death of him. Eliot rubbed his palm over the plane of Quentin’s back and whispered in his ear. “I don’t do quickies, baby.” Quentin shivered and made a terribly pathetic sound. Good. God, but he liked this boy. But he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to keep a modicum of control. This was his wheelhouse, even when reality was tipping on its side. “You’re not that experienced, you said. You ever done that before?”

Quentin was panting against Eliot’s shoulder. “Mm. One time. It wasn’t—great. But I want to—with you.” Quentin looked up at him through those long lashes, cheeks so deliciously red. “I’m sorry. Is that too—much—or? Or—I. I know I’m a lot, sometimes.”

He wondered who had told him _that._ Here he was, asking Eliot to _fuck him_ , and he was _apologizing_. 

“Everyone who’s worth anything is a lot sometimes.” He stroked Quentin’s hair, twisting it through his fingers. It was thick and soft and straight and wholly unlike Eliot’s hair, which was coarse and had a mind of its own and required the full Curly Girl treatment and at least one hydrating hair mask a week to maintain sheen, bounce, and humidity resistance. And Quentin smelled like Pantene. It fell through his fingers like silk.

“So that’s a no.”

“Definitely not a no. A ‘let’s table that for another time.’ Let me take you out and then get you relaxed and spoiled and treat you like you’re meant to be treated.”

“And then?”

“Then I’d fuck you silly.”

Quentin laughed against him. “Okay. I guess I should—go to class—”

“Oh, no—I didn’t say that. Don’t leave yet. I have plenty of tricks up my sleeve.” He kissed Quentin on the forehead, and Quentin moaned against him, the sweetest sound. He knew he’d wanted this—so much for so long—the simplicity of this boy in this bed, wanting him, nothing but the mundanity of daily schedules pressed between them. He just didn’t know it had been Quentin he’d wanted. Not like that made any reasonable sense at all. “You want me to get you off, baby? You’re so hard.”

Quentin burrowed into him, his body taut and fidgety. “I’d. I’d like that.”

“For the rest of it… ‘We have world enough and time,’” he quipped.

“God, don’t go quoting Marvell at me. I can only get so aroused.” Quentin paused, wrapping his leg around Eliot’s bottom leg. He was delicious and hot-skinned and near, and a geek and a little bit crazy. “Actually that poem is pretty douchey.”

Eliot laughed and curled into Quentin. “It’s got 17th century sexual coercion mansplaining vibes, like ‘Blurred Lines’ or ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’”

“Look who knows his poets.”

“Honestly, that’s one of the only days I showed up to AP lit. I didn’t read anything else besides poems in all four years of high school. For books—I always went for the first and last page of every book. You get the general themes that way.”

“Oh my God,” Quentin said, groaning dramatically and kissing at the hollow of his neck. Eliot’s skin sparkled beneath Q’s touch. “You’re the worst sort of person.”

“It’s gotta be 10:05 by now. And I’d really like to watch you come again. Then you can go to _class_.” Eliot ran his hands over Quentin’s body, the texture of muscles beneath his fingers. He shivered beneath Eliot’s hands, hips moving ever so slightly against Eliot now, so needy.

“Mm yeah. That won’t be—” He gasped when Eliot reached down and deftly gripped Quentin’s perfectly hard cock. “—ah—won’t be difficult—”

“No? You’re going to come quick for me, baby?” Quentin moved his hand down to touch Eliot, but Eliot moved his hand back to his side. “No, baby. Let me. I wanna watch you. Just let me focus on you—”

Even if Eliot’s world was, admittedly, a little mixed up. Even with the lingering fears and insecurities and the overwhelming feeling that this was _too much_ , so much, so fast, Eliot could do this. He ran his hand over Quentin’s flushed cock, his thumb running over the slit, slick with precum, drawing out pretty, soft sounds from the pretty, soft boy in his bed. He reached one hand to the bedside table and produced a bottle of lube, deftly opening it and drizzling it over both their cocks. Quentin let out a jagged sound when the cool liquid hit him, and Eliot grasped them both together, running his hand over them, making them both slick and hot and aching with need. (He liked his apartment clean—but his boys, he liked them messy.) He hiked Quentin’s leg over his and tucked their cocks side by side, gasping at Quentin thrusting against him, whining and saying his name—God, his name on those lips sounded filthy and turned on and full of all the things he’d wanted but never named— _Eliot… Eliot… El…_

He gripped them close together again, moving his hips, holding Quentin’s body with his free hand, rutting and thrusting and wet and slick. The trickle of sparks started inside of him, glittering from the base of his spine to the tips of his fingers—and he was, he was lit from the inside like flame, like fireworks. Pressure built in his center, all too soon—he didn’t want this to end. He heard himself saying Quentin’s name as they moved together, using the friction of Eliot’s hand, of each other’s bodies, trapped together in supple slickness, pushing and thrusting and moaning, sighing, gasping, impossible to get enough air, impossible to contain this much pleasure in the small, tight space between them. Quentin’s breath came faster and faster, color rising over his chest, a flush hitting his cheeks, teeth tugging at his lower lip as he moaned Eliot’s name over and over. 

Eliot moved to kiss him, loosening his grip and letting their cocks glide against each other, as he pushed his tongue between Quentin’s lips, hot and wet and brutal, tongues and teeth colliding. Eliot sighed against the sweet moans that came as Q moved faster, close, so close now. A sob coming from deep within Quentin as he changed his rhythm, stuttering against Eliot, whining, begging nonsensically— _please, please, please_ —until he released a shuddering groan and Eliot felt the warmth spill over his hand, over their intertwined bodies. The rush of sensation hit him all at once, tightening and building, a fiery coil constricting—and then he closed his eyes, seeing flame, murmuring Quentin’s name into the soft dip of his ear. Eliot’s orgasm ripped through him like something wild and untamed, a tidal wave, the brutal force of a storm. He cried out, dimly aware that Quentin’s arms were holding him tight, that the lights in his apartment had flickered— _but it wasn’t raining anymore, was it?_ —and pleasure glittered through him, gleaming and incandescent. He let out a guttural sound, his head buzzing with all the images and memories and the strangely Quentin-shaped space inside of him that he’d felt the first moment he saw him, all the oddities he’d pushed aside every time he tried to act like a normal person, like Normal Eliot, the real one who lived here, in this world. Panting and sweat slick, he was face to face with Quentin— _Q, Quentin_ —and the world felt heady and unreal. 

He blinked, willing the room into focus around him. He was Eliot Waugh. Twenty-six years old. Graduate student who attended classes (occasionally) at FIT, and Quentin was a—what was Quentin? They’d only just met. 

“That was…” Quentin sighed. “It’s… never that good. And that was—” Quentin shrugged and sprawled across Eliot, hot and slick and pleasantly sticky, kissing him slowly, his strong hands cupping Eliot’s face. And he was right. Nothing ever felt like _this._ Eliot was _wrecked_ , and above him, Quentin’s pupils were dilated, lips swollen from kissing him, kissing Eliot. This was dangerously close to _feelings_ talk, and he didn’t go there, not since… well, not for a long time. But he kissed Quentin back, reveling in the taste of him, in the unabashedly slutty way he’d asked to be fucked. Which was really working for Eliot. Even if Quentin was clumsy and dorky and really attached to the characters in all the books he kept talking about—well, that kinda did it for Eliot, too, honestly. It all made Eliot want to pin his arms back and listen to him sob and whimper ( _please please please_ ), feel him, taste him, sink into him, explore every inch, all the things he’d been missing for years but didn’t know how to miss.

No, Eliot didn’t want to talk. Not with the debris of all the Quentin thoughts—and all the others, all the fucked up things and the danger and the trauma—lingering at the edges of his mind. He’d say something, he knew, that he couldn’t take back. He felt a lifetime of words on the tip of his tongue—and worse, how he could hurt Quentin, break him. How he’d already done that. He should have been terrified. He should have run. He should do it now. 

“Mmm, I still want you to fuck me,” Quentin murmured, his breath hot against Eliot’s ear, his body sprawled, lewd and debauched, across Eliot’s chest, his thighs. A thrill ran down Eliot’s spine, his being overtaken with a swooping sensation, a heartbeat of desire springing into his spent cock. “You’re not getting out of that one. Not now.”

_What the fuck is he doing to me?_

He gripped Quentin’s face with one hand and brushed his thumb across Q’s lower lip. He moaned and licked at Eliot’s finger, which was—God. He moved his finger slowly over Quentin’s tongue. “Fuck. I wouldn’t dream of letting you down.” 

“Better not,” Quentin said. Quentin, who for some reason mumbled and stuttered and couldn’t quite get his thoughts together when he was talking about his nerd books—he wasn’t hesitant on being filthy in bed. 

So, that was one reason to ignore the very many things that were happening in Eliot’s brain. And he felt it was a pretty excellent reason. He was Eliot, after all. And it was on brand for Eliot to ignore his inner ramblings, trauma, emotions and—whatever had happened to him that caused him to feel split in two. Whatever it was that caused him to feel like he knew Quentin, had _been_ with Quentin, had loved him, had fucked it all up, had lost him. Yeah, there were also pretty excellent reasons _not_ to dig into that too much. Whatever had fucked with his brain was painful and awful and—yeah, there were lots of happy memories, or memory-like things—they couldn’t be _real_ —but most of it was a goddamn mess. 

And he would much rather have Quentin like this, clearly running late for class now, and kissing Eliot like his life depended on it. “I need to—hm—like, clean up and go.”

“No, you don’t. I said,” Eliot retorted. “Stay here all day. I’ll cook for you again and spoil you, make you come again… Imagine all the ways I can make you feel.”

Quentin scrunched his face up adorably and laughed. “Yeah, okay. You’re really not the Casanova train wreck I was promised. Because that all sounds really _soft_ and romantic and not at all—”

“How dare you? I’m definitely not soft. In any way.” He ran his fingers through Quentin’s hair because _how dare he, really._

Q ignored him. “And you need to meet Margo and show her your stuff. Show her you actually worked on it.”

“You’re too logical.”

Quentin hoisted himself out of bed and stumbled toward Eliot’s bathroom. “Um. Towel?” 

Eliot watched him, all narrow hips and long, lean muscle, a perfect curve to his ass. “Basket next to the shower.”

“You’re fancy,” he heard Quentin say. “This is a fucking… decorative basket.”

“I’m going for a certain aesthetic. Shitty New York apartment meets maybe place where I want to live someday.”

There was water running, and Eliot peered around to see if he could catch another glimpse of Quentin. It was ludicrous, really. This boy, undoing him piece by piece. And the—all the rest of it. He might be going insane. 

When Quentin reappeared, he was clean, but his hair was still mussed, which was, well, something that Eliot could admit he probably wasn’t going to get tired of anytime soon. Might as well admit defeat. Quentin slipped into his boxers, which were adorned with little penguins in bowties. Eliot smirked. 

“They’re from Banana Republic. So it’s like mid-level classy-ironic. Right?”

Quentin really had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. Penguin boxers from _Banana Republic_ were tacky and geeky and really terribly fucking clueless. And Eliot _loved_ Quentin in them. “Hm, yeah, definitely mid-level something. But keep going. I wanna watch you dress.”

“Pervert. No one told me you were a gross pervy stalker.” 

Eliot noted that any time Quentin darted near the topic of who had said exactly what about him, he studiously didn’t mention Margo. Just in relation to The Project. The Thing he was required to do with Margo, former friend. And—she was another inhabitant of his horror-tinged rememberings. Good memories there, too. The best. Which made them far too painful to dredge up while watching Quentin in his penguin boxers. Wrong topic, wrong time.

“That one is definitely true. Watching turns me on.” Eliot shrugged. He really wanted about ten cigarettes and a strong cup of coffee. His skin was still buzzing with the Quentin-ness of everything, and watching Quentin dress was making it—well, worse. And better. Quentin tugged on his jeans, which were shamefully a bit too big and the black sweater that did look really fucking good with his broad-shouldered frame and his dark eyes and the hair brushing against his shoulders. When he pulled on his blazer, he brushed by Eliot and gave him a kiss, lingering for just a moment and igniting that tight, crazed heat in Eliot’s core.

“See you, um, later. I guess.” Quentin smiled, and packed up his worn out messenger bag, stuffing stray books that he’d bandied about last night after their third bottle of Riesling. He dipped his head a bit and waved before hustling out of the door like a nervous rabbit. 

Eliot groaned and fell back on his pillow. He might live in denial quite a lot of the time, but even then he realized he was utterly and completely fucked.


	15. Never Hold On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot tries to win Margo over by talking about winning.
> 
> Thanks for the comments, you guys. I'm fucking obsessed with them. And I'm entirely focused on this fic because the alternative is the news. And... hard pass on the news right now. <3 I love each and every one of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of drugs, overdose, suicidal tendencies, domestic abuse, trauma. #justeliotthings

~Margo~

Margo was dreading this cocksucking fucking dickhole of a project. 

When the whole shebang had been announced as a joint venture between FIT and NYU, she’d been elated. (As elated as Margo ever got about anything, in her own measured and sardonic way.) It was fucking cool as shit to be able to work with actual designers, the best of the best, the cream of the fucking crop from the MFA program at arguably the best design school in the US. She’d wanted to work in fashion since she was ten years old and got her first jumpsuit, followed by her first pair of knee-high boots, and her first set of gorgeous, clinky bangles that she wore stacked on her wrists, absolutely everywhere. The bangles were _event_ pieces but Margo herself was an _event._ She brought the event with her. She just wasn’t good at… actual design. She fell heavily on the _fashion empire_ side of things, so business school it was. She was going to goddamn _own_ New York. And whatever Margo set out to do, she _did._ This fashion show was going to be the jewel in her crown, the first step of many in her plan for ultimate fashion domination.

When she sat down in class the first day they met with the FIT class, her blood was thrumming with possibility, with all the things she could do to pull this off, to get noticed, to out-fashion every other student and crush them under her metaphorical boot heel. 

And then she noticed Eliot. And _fuck_ that pretty boy with his stupid gorgeous eyeliner and his dumb smirk and all the dark talent and wicked skill he brought to every design—when he actually bothered to do any fucking thing at all. And she _knew_ , she just _knew_ , she was going to get saddled with that cunty, bitchy, careless asshole who she’d so desperately _adored_ the very moment she’d met him. Like he was half of her, like he was the missing piece of her heart, her family, her soul. Not in like, a romantic or sexual way, but also not _not_ that way. It was complicated. And he’d burned—and nearly broken her—with his recklessness and his complete and utter disregard for his own life. 

And of course, she was right. Fucking Eliot Waugh, who she’d studiously avoided for the better part of a year, was forced back into her life with the weight of a thousand dicks.

She tapped her pen against the sheaf of papers she’d brought with her. (She preferred to write where she could and saved the typing for later, when she could organize all of her thoughts into Margo Hanson’s sublime brilliance.) Eliot, of course, was fucking late. Five minutes late, but still. It was going on toward six minutes now, and she was just about to text Quentin to complain, but really, she didn’t need to stoke that particular fire. 

When Q had seen Eliot in their coffee shop— _their_ place, Quentin and Margo’s place—he’d nearly drenched himself in coffee and proceeded to alternately turn eleven shades of splotchy pink and eye-fuck Eliot every time he thought Margo wasn’t looking. It was gross. And boring. And predictable. Because Eliot was basically _everyone’s_ wet dream, but Quentin’s especially. He liked them tall and lissome and stylish, went slightly insane over guys in eye makeup, and had sort of a fucked up obsession with David Duchovny (also predictable) because he was a giant X-Files _dork_ and he liked those sharp, aquiline features and that smug, I-know-I’m-super-fuckable personality. (Margo got it, she got the whole Mulder thing because she liked X-Files, too, and she liked binge-watching re-runs with Q especially. Not that anyone was allowed to know that information.) 

So it was _clear_ that Q would become immediately obsessed with all things Eliot. And it was clear, also, that Eliot would mark him as prey because Quentin was an unintentionally seductive, bisexual disaster who radiated heat and want and take-care-of-me neediness. And he had great hair. In the little time she’d been friends with Eliot (God, they were so close so fast) she knew he went fucking bonkers over needy bitches, and he loved ‘fuckable’ hair, as he’d so blithely stated. So she wasn’t even going to _mention_ Eliot to Q ever again because then Q might “accidentally” (and predictably) show up here and topple onto Eliot’s dick. And that would be—predictably—a fucking shitshow. 

She opened her phone and started texting Julia (because God help her, she’d somehow become _friends_ with two giant nerds, and okay, Julia was kinda hot and she sent random GIFs of snakes with hats or kittens snuggling with frumpy old dogs, and she kept doing that to the point where they were texting friends just because Margo once mentioned that she liked cute animal videos when they first met—and Margo had figured out after about the tenth animal GIF that Julia had _targeted_ her and was making Margo into her friend, not just because she was friends with Quentin but also because Julia had _decided_ on Margo as a friend, as a person, and Julia got what Julia wanted—Margo respected the fuck out of that, so here she was, fucking texting snobby Yale Law Julia because life was weird).

**Margo:** That fucker is late again  
 **Julia:** the fashion fucker?  
 **Margo:** That’s the one. Q secretly wants to bone him   
**Julia:** sounds like the type of unhealthy life choice q would pursue  
 **Margo:** He went on a date with some guy from his class   
**Julia:** 🙀  
 **Margo:** He sent me a text to tell me he’s alive but haven’t heard nething else  
 **Julia:** Name?  
 **Margo:** Jim Davis. You dig up what you can?  
 **Julia:** fuck yes absolutely law school is boring

“My queen?” Margo looked up and saw Eliot, in his stupid paisley tie and his dumb green vest that matched his eyes when they were looking green (they were looking green today). He had on black-gray skinny chinos and a deep violet shirt, and it would all look absurd on anyone else. But he was Eliot. So it looked like he was headed to a shoot for GQ. Margo hated him. He leaned over and sort of—awkwardly—tapped her on her shoulder as a way of greeting. 

“My douche-bucket?”

He somehow already had a coffee, black, she thought, in a ceramic travel mug. Because of course. He smiled, and it was warm and lovely and she had to remind herself of the Awful Night, the unfocused look in his eyes before—well, before what had happened, happened. And the fallout she had to deal with. The feeling of the ground shifting and opening beneath her feat, threatening to swallow her whole.

“You’ve got such a way with words. So eloquent.”

“I definitely am. And you’re fucking late.” 

“Delayed ten minutes—”

“Try fifteen. What were you doing? Really? I do want to know. Getting your dick wet or smoking crack—”

Eliot looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “I know you don’t have a great opinion of me—”

“Not really.” She crossed her arms and wished, desperately, that she didn’t _want_ to like Eliot, that she didn’t want to go back in time and start it over and maybe save the people that they were when they first met. That maybe she could have prevented it, prevented her own terror, her rage, her aching disappointment and sadness. All the things she didn’t want to let herself feel, the things she’d spent a lifetime not feeling. And here he was, and he’d fucked himself up all over again less than a week ago. Sauntering, stylish, sexy fucking dumpster fire. She reminded herself to be glad that she wasn’t there with him this time, that someone else had dealt with the consequences of Eliot’s terrifyingly shitty decisions.

“I did my part. I want to show you. I think—I think you’re going to like it.” Eliot was oddly hesitant when he took out his battered iPad Pro. She knew it was probably refurbished, that he’d paid for it with tips, that the outfit he’d put together so beautifully was thrifted and painstakingly hand-tailored to suit Eliot’s lanky frame. The immaculate sense of _value_ he always created was just that—created. Made from scratch. Put together with care and love, paid for with a paltry salary. It was commendable. It always had been. Eliot was magnificent, determined when he wanted to be, fastidious in his work when he chose to do it, charismatic and charming—really, that was the problem. And if he’d put out any effort over the past two days, his designs would be—well, they’d be stunning. 

She couldn’t help smiling—just a little—as he beamed at her, opening the sketches on the tablet. He scooted his chair closer to hers—the pink one, the one Q liked—but he positioned the tablet so she had to lean in close to him. His pull was painfully magnetic, but she managed to keep her shit together, even as he started flipping through the designs, telling her about his concept for each one. And when he started talking about them, he lit up—

“So, this first design plays on the idea of the nomad, a warrior, but it’s a woman’s look—flattering but comfortable, easily translatable to a ready-to-wear look. Lots of earth tones and bright white and—”

“Boots.”

“Fuck yes. The best boots. We can thrift them, and I can refinish them or re-sole them, whatever—”

Of course he could. “And here’s one of the men’s looks. It’s more gender neutral—or it plays with the concept of masculinity. A wrap shirt in organza, bright jewel tones, a black velvet robe and—high waisted trousers in a silk-cotton blend with a wide leg. A noble look.”

Fucking fine. Okay. Momentary reevaluation. This was—well, quite a bit better than she’d expected. Everything was high concept, incredibly detailed and thorough, and just as Eliot had originally described. “What’s the thread that draws these looks together? Like you said—royalty—originally, but it’s not really royalty, is it? It has some of those elements, but it’s different. It’s—”

“Fillory. Like the kids’ books.” He looked at her innocently, eyes wide, like she didn’t exactly what that meant. 

God how she hated him in that moment. Because it was perfect. Because inside of her, there was a deep beating warmth that felt seen and understood and _created_ by that idea. By reimagining Fillory, bringing it to life in the medium she’d loved her whole life.

“So let me get this straight— _you_ —the person who told me he skated by in high school by figuring out how many classes he could skip and still graduate—you’re creating a collection based around a series of _books_.”

He nodded. “I saw your friend—what was his name?—he had those books. I knew I’d read like, half of one of them.”

Okay, first. Half of one of them? And if she had to bet, he definitely fucking remembered Quentin’s name. He’d repeated Q’s name like he was a porn star at the start of a scene. So this was all a load of bullshit, but fuck—the whole idea was _incredible_. Fucking brilliant. And nerdy. But elegant. Intelligent. And did he know? He must have. About Margo and her eleven-year-old Fillory nerdgasm. Or maybe it was just “what’s his name’s” books. She gave him a cold look. “Now for real. Where’d you get this idea?”

“Like I said. Your friend—”

“You know my friend’s name is Quentin.”

Eliot shrugged like he neither knew nor didn’t know, but there was a flicker of something that registered on his face. Margo just didn’t know _what._ She didn’t like it. 

“Your friend had those books, and I know that there’s a big style aesthetic to fantasy novels. And this is—sweeter and lovelier and more playful—than that dark Game of Thrones shit.”

“You read those books?”

“Please. They’re like a million pages. I have a life. I did watch like, most of the first season—and I read the wiki—”

“Jesus fuck a goddamn Lannister.” She rolled her eyes. 

“—And I flipped through a bunch of the costume images from that show before I got started. This is _not_ dark fantasy, though it has some dark elements. Let me draw your attention, jus a moment, to this one—” He pulled up a sketch, a woman’s look, with a brilliant red jeweled crown and matching red and gold brocade. “It’s a coronation gown. There’s a train— _a la_ Princess Diana’s wedding dress, but much more functional—and there’s a play between masculine and feminine here too, with the sharp lines at the bust. It’s a power look.”

Something in her chest felt like it was poking-poking-poking against her, clawing its way to cracking open. It was fucking incredible, obviously, because Eliot had put his heart, his soul into it. But it was something else, too. It hit at the core of Margo and her love of Fillory, but not just that. Her—yearning—if one could put such a name on a thing like that. To be not just dazzling but also commanding. Formidable. 

“El—that’s—wow.” She didn’t say anything else, because of that pulsing thing inside of her. She just—couldn’t—explain it. Not in words. Not in the confines of this coffee shop. Not—anywhere.

“So you like it?”

She looked at him, wishing that she didn’t like it, wishing she didn’t _love it_ , that she didn’t think it was fucking _spectacular_. That she didn’t think he was holy-shit-amazing when he put his mind to something. She looked at him seriously and felt herself lift a hand to his cheek (the lovely line of his cheekbone). “It’s majestic as fuck, Eliot. So you better deliver on these promises, you lazy motherfucker.”

He grinned—it wasn’t that false, put-on smile he used on her ever since their grand falling out. Eliot Waugh of House Asshole, sad sack of addicted numbness, his royal highness of disappointment, Daddy of broken promises, seducer of pretty boys, first of his fucking name, was giving Margo a _genuine_ emotion. He was pleased. He was like, desperately happy that Margo liked it. _God._ He wished he was just an emotionless dickhole. But no. He wanted Margo to like him. She saw it now. It made something angry and hurt and horribly sad churn in her stomach. 

She didn’t know if she could go there—he’d almost died after that first month in graduate school. His boyfriend had fucking—God—beat him fucking senseless, which was insane because Eliot was like, eight feet tall. And that Hitler Youth he was dating was basically a munchkin. But Eliot had been a gentle baby; he always was, wasn’t he? Underneath all that hard, glossy armor. 

She didn’t like to think about the rest. She couldn’t. 

Eliot pushed on, talking through the other designs—linen work clothes in muted, fern green and rich tan, a dress—well, not quite a dress—with a huge blue ballgown feel and leather leggings, a brocade suit that somehow looked lightweight and irresistibly soft to the touch, and a whole game plan on how to spend the least amount of money in the Garment District and— _please_ —he really, really wanted Margo to come with him. He’d even made a whole list of thrift stores between Hell’s Kitchen and the East Village and mock-ups of the makeup he wanted to use on the models—loads of eyeliner and shimmery, dark shadow and red lips, pale cheeks (“ _like Robert Smith when he was still pretty_ ,” which was some serious shade but Margo knew exactly what he meant). 

“And,” he said, while Margo was flipping through the eyeshadow notions and notes on each of the colors, “I want you to walk it.”

“You want me to what now?”

“The coronation gown. I want you to walk in the coronation gown.” He gave her a sly look. “I designed it for you.”

It was a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t have been anything, really. This was just a school project. Margo was a business student, not a fucking model. And yet. “Jesus, El—”

He preened a bit, that motherfucker, when she called him ‘El.’ Because of course he did. He was there for a good boost to the ego, a way for him to feel like he was a reasonable person who did nice things, did worthy things. The worst of it was that, even then, Margo knew she’d say yes. And she was sure as fuck going to oversee every detail of this collection. 

“I’m serious, you know. I drew it, thinking of you and the way you walked into that boring first-year mixer, like you owned the whole place. And I was wearing that—”

“White linen suit.” She laughed. She couldn’t help laughing. He had looked goddamn amazing, but it was completely out of place in a grubby Manhattan bar full of business students in blazers and fashion students in their purposefully tattered hipster garments.

“It was just… you. When I drew it.” He paused. “You know I’m not seeing Mike anymore.”

She nodded, careful, her blood buzzing with a kind of—nervousness. This was territory she didn’t get into. Not since that night. “Look, El, I honestly don’t give two fucks about where you’re sticking your dick—”

Eliot sighed, looked away. “It’s not about—where, whatever. I’ve had some trouble remembering a lot of things recently.” He glanced over at her, and his eyes were dark, hurting. “I already know there’s a lot I don’t remember about that weekend. I’ve put off remembering it. But it’s coming back now and—”

“Eliot, don’t. We’re not friends. What happened back then—it doesn’t matter. We can make this a kick-ass project and both maybe get some cash and a couple of job offers.” She rattled it off like she was reciting a grocery list, like it really _didn’t_ matter that Eliot had almost _died_ , like she didn’t have dreams about it. Like she didn’t think about it whenever she looked at him, heart hammering with grief and—something else. Something lost.

But Eliot, being fucking Eliot, was pressing on. “It does. Matter. I know you got me to the hospital. I don’t remember much after that. But I think you probably saved my life.”

Margo and Eliot were both silent for a moment, the ambient noise of the latte machine and the coffee shop gossip droning around them like a light, careless fog. After a while, Margo dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a scratchy coffee shop napkin and let out a heavy sigh. “I definitely saved your life, you stupid bitch.”

Eliot’s lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, see, that’s what I remember. I remember other things too. It’s weird. And I don’t really think you’ll understand—but it’s like I have these other phantom memories since—well, since my most recent foray into almost killing myself. But that’s where this dress came from. Like this whole other life—a dream maybe?—where I imagined you. You weren’t a queen. You were a _king_.” Eliot laughed, holding his hands to his head like it hurt, like the words were being pulled out of him, like it was destroying part of him. “And you kind of, in these memories or whatever. Not memories I guess. You kind of have a habit of saving my life. So I wanted to make this. For you.”

Margo just watched him. He looked a little shaky, eyes darting back and forth, and he wiped his hands on his trousers, like he’d been sweating through telling her all of— _this_ —this fucking crazy shit. Which was wholly unbelievable and likely the product of Eliot’s propensity for taking way too many pills in both the wrong quantity and wrong combination. Not to mention the fact that it sounded like someone had busted open the back of his head—and he neither went to the police or the hospital. Because, you know, low key death wish. Against every bit of her better judgment, she put her hand on Eliot’s. 

“Hey. I just wanted to take care of you. You blew me off when you woke up. For fucking Mike. Who had a problem with me because I was trying to be your actual friend. Who beat the shit out of you and inspired you to take—God only the fuck knows what kind of pills—and when I found you—” Margo was trembling. She didn’t talk about this shit. And El was never supposed to bring it up. She thought he understood that. She thought that was the deal he made when he told her it was _nothing_ and Mike didn’t _mean it_. When she stopped returning his texts because she just _couldn’t_ deal with someone who hated himself so thoroughly, who ripped through people like wildfire, hoping to burn alive in the process. She’d been so lonely after that. And here he was, presenting his admittedly fucking cool peace-offering, making her relive all of it. To what end?

“I’m—shit. I don’t remember much about—any of it. Maybe because of the—” He gestured at his head. “—and maybe because I blocked it out. Or I was too high to really get a grasp on it. I don’t fucking know. Anything is possible, Bambi.”

Margo knit her brows together. “That’s a talking Disney animal.”

“Hm? Don’t they all talk?”

“You just called me Bambi.”

“It’s apt.”

“It’s not. I’m a king, remember? Not a fawn.” She crossed her arms. Eliot was weird. Weirder than usual. But not… she thought, in a bad way. There was a twisted weight in her shoulders that seemed to release when she looked at him now. 

“Big brown eyes. Undefeated in the face of great hardship. Loyal. Kind.” Eliot shrugged. Like anything he was saying made the least bit of sense. (It didn’t. But it also did. A little bit.)

“Say that again and see if I don’t chop off your dick.”

Eliot sat back in the pink velveteen chair with mock horror, looking like a gayer and more disaffected modern version of Oscar Wilde. “You wouldn’t. It’s the source of my creative power. We’d be doomed without it.”

In spite of herself, Margo laughed. “You conceited fuck.”

It felt like it had been a long time since she’d laughed—sometimes she held the sheen of herself so tightly that she forgot what it was to be human, to let go. With Quentin—well, she fucking loved Quentin, of course, and he was hilarious in with his sarcastic, bitchy little side comments and his constant, rambling dork-speak that Margo hated to admit that she adored. But Quentin was always _work_. Work she looked forward to. Rewarding work that gave back to her unconditionally. But she thought she could easily say that he was never _light_ or uplifting. Eliot had been those things for her—until he wasn’t.

_Fuck._ She’d tried to create a life where she didn’t have to care about other people’s bullshit. Somehow, she kept falling into it. That was a royal cunt-pounding mess of scrotum-infused garbage.

And now this idiot, who had turned her escape-from-California grad school mega experience real serious real fast, was apologizing (well, not exactly) and expecting to—what? Be friends? _Friends._ Friends?

She crossed her arms. Just because he was sort of on the right track didn’t mean he got a total pass. 

“Okay, Mr. Big Dick Energy. We’re calling a truce. Or whatever. But you scared me. And you fucked me up. And I’ve spent the past year avoiding the shit out of you because you cocked up real early on and pushed me the fuck away after I… after I did what I did.” _Cried on a heap on the floor next to your hospital bed, didn’t I? But you didn’t remember because your heart had stopped and when you woke up, you were still high. Jesus fucking God on a stick._

Eliot just nodded and tucked his stupid fucking iPad with all his lovely, gorgeous designs under his dumb long arm. And he watched her with those deep coppery-green eyes and his asinine outfit that looked like a fucking million bucks. And he said the one thing, the only thing that would actually, truly win her over. She knew it was coming, and she hated it. Hated him. “We need to go shopping.”

“God. Yes. _Fine._ I’ll go with you.”

“If I go alone, I’ll just buy seventy-five yards of raw silk. And nothing else. I need my business plan. Business partner.” And then he said the only other thing that mattered, and she knew she was a goner. “We need to win. And without you—we won’t.”

“Fucking. Fuck you. Yes. Absolutely we do. And we will. We’ll fucking slaughter them all. Take no prisoners. Burn the fuckers alive. Heads on pikes will be the latest, greatest fashion week look.”

Eliot grinned. If this had been part of his sadistic plan to capture Margo, well fine. It had made him productive. And maybe they could fucking win. Scratch that. They’d definitely fucking win. Margo didn’t lose.

“Tomorrow?”

“Oh. No, unfortunately I have a _friend._ ” Ew. “Coming into town. It’s her birthday and she wants to spend it in New York with like, dancing and shit. I don’t know. I got roped into it because her best friend isn’t actually fun. Like Netflix fun but not bar fun.”

“I work at the Stand-In. There’s dancing on Friday nights.” He said it in a teasing, delicate way, testing the waters still.

“That place is sketch. Don’t you have guys tucking dollar bills in your waistband?”

“Excuse me. They are mostly—five dollar bills. And well, yes, some of them are in my waistband. But they spend just as easily as anything else. Dirty man tips helped get me a Bernina serger and an overlock, I’ll have you know. My own. Not belonging to anyone else, and a rented space where they live, waiting for my artistry. And that will help us— _win_. You see sketchy. I see winning.” 

“You make a fair point. But it’s still sketchy as fuck.”

“Free drinks after eight. I’m the manager after Marina leaves. I get to say who has free birthday drinks and who doesn’t.”

“Tempting. That is stumbling distance from my apartment.” _I’ll just have to keep Q on a leash._

“No one will stuff dollars in your bra. If they do, give them to me. We’ll use them to buy extra fabric.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Fine. All in the name of winning. And Lady Yale springing her birthday on me at the last minute.”

“To winning.” He tipped his coffee toward her as if in a toast. And she guessed this was all okay—for now. 

“Don’t fuck up again, Eliot. I’ll only say this once because we’ve had too much emotional shit during project time. But try to pull shit on me again, and I’ll rip your pretty balls off. Got it?”

“They are pretty. And I won’t pull shit. Just designing and doing and winning.” 

She wasn’t convinced. But she guessed she had to be willing to go out on a limb every once in a while.


	16. [Interlude ~ A Story Told in Texts]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> party before the party is the pre-party
> 
> and yes i'm working on another long lovely chapter after this <3

[Interlude - A Story Told in Texts] 

~Quentin and Eliot~

2PM Friday March 1 

**Jim Davis:** saw u leaving the coffee shop this morning u look cute today  
**Quentin:** stalker  
**Jim Davis:** u already know that but no i was getting breakfast across the street i have a life outside of stalking adorable boys  
**Jim Davis:** u have classes today?  
**Jim Davis:** if not u can come over, no classes not working until 6  
**Quentin:** i do in fact have classes and u can’t keep distracting me  
**Jim Davis:** u r the one distracting me i keep thinking about your pretty lips wrapped around my cock  
**Quentin:** oh my god are you sexting me is this sexting I feel like this is sexting  
**Jim Davis:** will send a dick pic later  
**Quentin:** pls no I will never get anything done  
**Jim Davis:** no promises  
**Jim Davis:** saturday night I can show u in person if u are interested  
**Quentin:** might be but my friend will be here  
**Jim Davis:** and I’m your dirty secret  
**Quentin:** definitely dirty but I need to come clean if this is a thing  
**Jim Davis:** it’s not not a thing honestly  
**Quentin:** so clarifying, thank you  
**Quentin:** what should I tell them then  
**Jim Davis:** tell them you’re a little slut who loves my cock  
**Quentin:** vivid description there but I think that might be tmi  
**Jim Davis:** if that is tmi they aren’t real friends  
**Quentin:** I want to tell them I’m at the beginning of something with a guy I might really like  
**Quentin:** how does that sound to you  
**Jim Davis:** is it true  
**Quentin:** it’s true  
**Jim Davis:** good b/c u are beautiful  
**Quentin:** u might need contacts  
**Jim Davis:** my prescription is up to date  
**Jim Davis:** Sunday?  
**Quentin:** I’ll check my calendar u know what looks like i’m free  
**Jim Davis:** good I want to spoil you want to make you feel amazing  
**Quentin:** how r u real  
**Jim Davis:** come find out

~~~  
~Penny and Quentin~

2:14PM Friday Mar 1

 **Quentin:** u remember I told you my friend Julia is crashing on the couch this weekend  
**Penny:** fuck off  
**Quentin:** I mean is it ok that she’ll be here  
**Penny:** Jesus Christ grow a pair of balls  
**Quentin:** I mean I just want to make sure it’s okay  
**Penny:** u r the worst  
**Quentin:** um likewise but anyway Julia will be on the couch don’t be mean to her  
**Penny:** won’t be I’ll direct my malice at u b/c you clomp around the apt at all hours and u leave crusty cereal bowls in the sink and u think way too loud it’s like I can hear you thinking about ur dumb books  
**Quentin:** that is oddly specific  
**Penny:** goodBYE im going to class

~~~  
~Quentin and Margo~

4:19 PM Friday Mar 1 

**Margo:** coming over now bitch  
**Margo:** we’re getting ready  
**Quentin:** why!? it’s not even dark yet  
**Margo:** there’s a process  
**Quentin:** if you say so but I have to work a little while  
**Margo:** plebeian learn to live  
**Quentin:** I am  
**Margo:** and u r telling me about Jim Davis  
**Quentin:** am I?  
**Margo:** at ur door let me in

~~~

~Margo and Julia~

4:52PM Friday March 1 

**Julia:** train running 15 min late  
**Margo:** fuck the MTA already trying to get Quentin drunk strippers coming soon  
**Julia:** girl or boy strippers  
**Margo:** both don’t be boring  
**Julia:** i have an interesting tidbit. slightly gossip oriented  
**Margo:** 🧐 spill it gossip is my discipline  
**Julia:** no jim davis at NYU, no james davis. one at columbia in undergrad, looks like a lacrosse douche  
**Margo:** lying little fuck  
**Julia:** he must not want you/us to know  
**Margo:** have no idea why i am sweet as a lamb  
**Julia:** there’s gotta be a reason beyond your ‘sweetness’  
**Margo:** fuck off back to Yale jules  
**Julia:** can’t fuck off getting into Manhattan now  
**Julia:** and we need to make q uncomfortable, it is written  
**Margo:** ur a ginormous dork  
**Julia:** definitely, but a litigious dork, will get information out of q  
**Margo:** good thing you are here tonite we will forcibly drag it out of him: my birthday present to you  
**Julia:** is that the only birthday present  
**Margo:** no bitch free drinks and dancing and Q made you a cake  
**Julia:** um q doesn’t cook  
**Margo:** Q bought you a cake  
**Margo:** from whole foods  
**Julia:** 😋   
**Margo:** dork  
**Julia:** you love me you can’t wait to see me  
**Margo:** you’re typing words but I don’t understand them at all rn  
**Julia:** u know you do bitch  
**Margo:** fuck you hard, bitchballs  
**Julia:** so if q made up this fake guy. why. what is he doing  
**Margo:** remains to be seen obviously something is going on  
**Julia:** something good or something bad  
**Margo:** something Q  
**Margo:** which is 🤷🏽  
**Julia:** how tantalizing  
**Margo:** is Quentin related intrigue really going to dominate your birthday is it some kind of nerd soulmate thing  
**Julia:** it’s a bonus. drinks. dancing. quentin being squirrelly about a guy  
**Margo:** place has karaoke Friday nights  
**Julia:** FUCK YES I HAVE A SIGNATURE SONG  
**Margo:** of course you do  
**Julia:** q and I have a dance too  
**Margo:** please no  
**Julia:** please yes you mean  
**Margo:** don’t worry I will distract you long enough so you don’t embarrass yourselves. will get you some dick before you go back home to be a law tool  
**Julia:** optional  
**Margo:** fine bitch be boring  
**Julia:** i’m fascinating  
**Margo:** okay this has been real super fun but I gotta get Q dressed u know he’s being impossible  
**Julia:** he’s always impossible but make him look cute he’s cuter than he things  
**Margo:** doing my best it’s like working with a floppy grumpy canvas swathed in flannel and denim  
**Julia:** 😘  
**Margo:** 🤮  
**Julia:** cu soon xo  
**Margo:** 🙄  
**Margo:** 💋

~~~

~ Eliot and Marina ~

5PM Friday Mar1

 **Marina:** r u up to working yet r u coming in  
**Eliot:** yes why were you concerned about me are we friends now  
**Marina:** haha no I just need to make sure u can make drinks  
**Eliot:** I can make drinks  
**Marina:** side question  
**Marina:** has anything unusual been happening with you  
**Eliot:** besides dying and not knowing who accosted me in the lovely restroom at the Stand In no nothing unusual  
**Marina:** ok well tell me if there is anything  
**Eliot:** because we’re friends?  
**Marina:** nope I have my reasons

~~~

~ Eliot and Margo ~

6:15PM Friday Mar1

 **Eliot:** when r u and your friends coming just to know for the sake of reasons  
**Margo:** 9? idk we are eating now  
**Eliot:** how many ppl  
**Margo:** I think four  
**Eliot:** good see you then my friend josh will take care of you while I work I get off at 10  
**Margo:** so you’re what going to hang out with us I thought this is your prime time for picking up boys  
**Eliot:** no I love karaoke more important than boys  
**Margo:** 🙄  
**Eliot:** i am an amazing performer and i resent your eye roll emoji  
**Margo:** deal with it you’re a big girl  
**Eliot:** see you later  
**Margo:** fiiiiiine byeeee


	17. I'll Promise You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet. Eliot is still all about Quentin. Quentin is all about Eliot. And shit goes a little sideways when there's alcohol and a bunch of emotional shit going on.
> 
> We're moving on to different Cure lyrics for chapter titles because I decided that's what we're going to do.
> 
> No triggers. Lots of drinking.

~Quentin~

“Here,” Margo said, handing him a pair of faded gray jeans. They were cool and soft to the touch, the denim worn in and well-loved, if that was a thing that clothing could be. 

“Here, what?” Quentin put the jeans in his lap and fiddled with the third paragraph in the second section of his first year project. The wording wasn’t right, and Margo wasn’t helping him concentrate. Okay, he wasn’t concentrating like, super great anyway. He had his mind on other things. Like Eliot and his sexting. He still hadn’t sent a dick pic, which was—both good and bad. When it came down to it, he really wouldn’t have minded. Because he was already thinking about Eliot’s dick, okay?

“You do remember your friend Julia, your _best friend_ is going to be here in New York in like an hour? And then we’re eating the fuck out of some takeout, and we’re pregaming. And we’re going out.”

Quentin looked at her blankly, trying to focus on her words. He knew—yeah of course he knew—the plans for Julia’s birthday. But it all felt like a Julia and Margo thing rather than a Quentin thing. “I said I probably need to come home early to work. I have a lot of shit to do on this thing—” 

“Don’t leave me out with Julia with my dick in my hand, looking like an asshole. I don’t acknowledge any of what you just said.” Margo loomed close to Quentin, inspecting him. “Jules said she’d be fifteen minutes late. So we’re going to hustle our balls and get the fuck ready.”

Quentin sighed and closed his laptop, running his fingers over the jeans. “So. I’m guessing you—you expect me to wear something of your choosing. That I don’t own.”

“You own those now, Coldwater. I got them at my favorite thrift shop. A fucking deal and a half. I was sick of seeing you look like a hobo.” Margo pointed to the jeans. “Ovary up and put them on. Don’t be a whiny bitch.”

“Jesus, Margo—a hobo?” He put his head in his hands. He hated being treated like a doll. What made the whole thing worse was that Margo was always _right_ about Quentin’s clothes, and she always made Quentin look _better_ , way better. (And if he was going to keep seeing Eliot… wait, was he seeing Eliot?) He rubbed his hands over his face, through his hair, anxiety rumbling beneath his skin. Maybe he did need a drink.

“Julia told me to make you look cute. And then we’re going to get you trashed. And you’re going to tell us all about _Jim Davis._ ” She dropped those last two words with acidic emphasis, hands on her hips, and Quentin flinched. “So you’re wearing these jeans I got for you—happy fucking Julia’s birthday, Q—and this reasonably cute button-down I found in the back of your closet.”

“That’s too tight on me,” Quentin said, eyeing the textured blue shirt he’d worn for his graduation from Columbia. “I haven’t worn it in two years now. Like, maybe three.” 

“And you’re what? Like five ounces heavier now?”

“It was always too tight,” Quentin huffed. And yeah, he did kind of sound like a whiny bitch. “I hate when my shirts are tight.” 

“All of your other shirts are too big. So I’m going to guess that this one actually fits you.” She threw it at him. “Put it on. I’m doing my makeup in your living room—which smells like bong water, bt-dubs—and then I’m getting ready when Julia gets here.”

“You’re not already ready?” He knitted his eyebrows together. She was wearing high-waisted leather leggings and some kind of flowy but also tight teal tunic thing that probably cost two hundred dollars. And he hadn’t really noticed if she was wearing makeup, but he was still deeply confused about whether or not he _should_ notice women’s makeup. So he just… didn’t. Mostly. (He _did_ notice Eliot’s eyeliner.)

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“That tracks. Comparison and content,” Quentin replied, running his fingers over the soft denim. The jeans were pretty nice. From some brand he’d never heard of—Rag and Bone. 

“You’re a nerd.”

“You brought it up. You get off on that ‘Game of Thrones’ stuff way more than I do. I didn’t make it all the way through the fifth book. I just fucking hate Cersei so much—”

“It’s ‘A Song of Ice and Fire.’ You ignorant blasphemer. Cersei is a really complex character—”

“If you think sociopaths are complex characters.” He grinned at her. He liked getting her going on nerd shit. Especially ‘Game of Thrones.’ She had a thing for Tormund. And Cersei, honestly. Neither of which was surprising in the least. 

“I’m putting on some music, you foolish, foolish boy. And not your dumb top 40 stuff.”

“It’s not all top 40,” Quentin said, defensive. So what if he liked Taylor Swift? As far as he was concerned, it was a crime to _dislike_ Taylor Swift. 

“Top 40 and whiny indie sad boy rock? And Bowie.”

“Mm. Fair. That’s… yeah.” He twisted his hair in his fingers, eyeing the jeans. “Ok. I’ll try to put on these clothes—”

“Do or do not. There is no try,” Margo said, smirking. “And I’m bringing you a drink.”

“Bring it before I start changing. And—Penny is coming home from his job soon, and he’ll be pissed we’re all pregaming in here. I mean, he’ll just be pissed that like, people exist. So.” Quentin shrugged. “That’s just his thing.”

“I can handle that fucker.” Margo winked at him, and Quentin sighed. He wasn’t really in the _mood_ to do Julia’s birthday. It was only a few months since James had ditched Julia, and it was all a little weird without their old circle of friends. And to be frank, he was more than slightly disconcerted by the thing developing between Julia and Margo. He thought it shouldn’t be allowed to happen. Like the world might blow up if it got too much of them at the same time. 

Quentin heard music click on in the living area, something electronic and dance-y, and then Margo reappeared with a bottle of nice vodka (Svedka? He thought that was nice stuff), two limes and citrus sparkling water. “This is the best fucking way to start the night. A clean tipsy. Refreshing, light, easy on the system. I know you like raspberry cosmos and all that girly shit, but trust me.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. What was wrong with cosmos? He huffed, but he accepted the drink from Margo. It was nice—sparkly and relaxing as he slowly fussed around his room and got dressed while Margo sang (a little off key), hunched over their coffee table, applying coats of mascara. (“ _It’s a signal in the noise, it’s a bell in a mine, it’s a black dog in a junkyard… gonna chase you down in time._ ”) Sylvan Esso, he thought. Something Julia liked. God, Margo and Julia. He was going to need another few drinks to even get to the bar. Wherever it was they were going, it was sure to be loud and overwhelming and full of _people_.

When he slipped on the jeans, they—they fit. They were slim but not tight, not snug at the waist. And they made him look—well, sexy wasn’t a word he’d use to describe himself. But good. Overall. And she was right about the shirt. It fit. It accentuated the things he actually liked about himself—his broad shoulders, his trim waistline. It was—well, it might have been the alcohol talking—but it was pretty damn… okay, anyway.

When he stepped out of his room, Margo was messing with her already perfect eyebrows. He didn’t know what girls did to make their eyebrows _more_ perfect, but apparently it was something. She looked—regal—when she looked up at him. 

“Well, damn, you clean up nice, Coldwater. You look hot as fuck. I’d take you for a spin.”

A blush crept over Quentin’s cheeks. The shirt was definitely tighter than he normally liked, but it looked kind of really awesome, okay? He wore it untucked over the jeans. And he thought they might already be his favorite pair of jeans, ever. “You think so?”

“Damn right I do. I bet _Jim Davis_ would like the whole effect. What do you think, Quentin?” She arched an eyebrow, looking back at him from her pile of exotic looking makeup things. 

“I. Um.”

“You know ‘Jim Davis’ is the name of the cartoonist who cartoonist who created Garfield?”

“Uh—what a coincidence.” Quentin felt himself turning scarlet, and he raked his fingers through the back of his hair. _fuckfuckfuck I should just tell her._ “Funny thing about that—Margo—”

Quentin flinched when the door opened. Penny Adiyodi had walked in, scowling, because that motherfucker was always scowling. “The fuck is going on in here?”

“We’re taking our friend out for her birthday,” Margo drawled. “But I know you probably haven’t ever heard the word ‘friend’ or ‘birthday’ in a social context. So. I can see where you’re getting confused.”

Penny scoffed. He always seemed slightly undone by Margo (even though he referred to her as one of Quentin’s ‘nerd friends.’) “I have friends.”

“Name one. And have a fucking drink. Relax. It’s Friday night.” 

“I have an exam on Monday. And I have a friend.” He didn’t mention who. He leaned up against the brick wall next to their door, surveying the chaos Q and Margo had created with drinks and shoes and makeup and a bag of hot Cheetos that he and Margo were definitely going to regret later.

“That’s Monday. This is now. You should have a drink. And we’re getting free drinks at the bar for Julia’s birthday.”

“Julia’s coming?” Penny was trying to hide the—low hum of excitement—in his voice, but it wasn’t working. (He had never referred to Julia as a ‘nerd friend.’ Quentin had thoughts about that.) Penny went over and poured himself a double shot of vodka, mixing it with ice and sipping on it casually, like he really didn’t give a fuck that Margo was trying to include him despite his eternal dickishness (and his mad crush on Julia).

Quentin raised an eyebrow and gave Margo a look. She rolled her eyes, like yeah, typical. Julia attracted a certain type of guy and that guy was usually an alpha male asshole who was secretly not at all alpha. Margo kept telling Q that Penny had ‘secret feeling reserves,’ but Quentin had vehemently denied her claim. Until, well, until he saw how hard Penny studied, and how it seemed—it seemed that he didn’t really like being as lonely as he was. 

“Yeah, you should pick out your best scarf. See if she likes it. Come with us. I know the bartender. We’ll have _fun_. I know it’s a foreign concept.” 

“Maybe.” Penny nursed his drink and leaned back against the wall again. Margo kept working on her eyelashes, like they hadn’t already been through enough. 

Quentin’s brain caught up to Margo’s words as he finished his first gimlet. “You know the bartender? What bar?”

She gave him an appraising look, still clutching her mascara wand. “The Stand-In. Eliot works there. My fashion ho is trying to win me over. So I thought he’d let him ply us with free drinks after his manager leaves, and we can all get sloppy and dance and sing dumb 90s songs.”

“Um, who?” Quentin was certain he was blushing now, and he made a scene out of going to pour himself another drink, and then added, unhelpfully: “I thought you two weren’t friends.”

“He’s currently under reevaluation. And you know exactly who Eliot is. Tall, dark, and ‘he’s so fucking sexy,’ I seem to remember you saying like, fifty times that night you first saw him.” Margo cut her eyes at Quentin, gazing at him a little too long, just as they heard steps on the stairs and Julia waltzed inside, all windblown hair and generous smiles, lighting up the entire place. Like she always did. 

“Jules, happy fucking birthday,” Quentin said, pulling her into an embrace and holding her, the core of her close to him, slight and thick-haired and lovely and full of frenetic energy. The foil to the worst monsters of his depression. (Yeah—he must have done something good to deserve these two. That thought alone was worth a lot on his worst of his brain-broken days.)

Penny chuckled. “You know, bro, I just don’t get you. You have all this nerd-boy dragon-porn bullshit, and you have these—friends.” (Quentin knew he wanted to say _hot women_ , but even Penny wasn’t that much of a dick.)

“Yeah, um, friendship. You should try it. It involves like, buying cake. And going out dancing. Even if you don’t like dancing. Even if you’re terrible at dancing. Or singing. Or being around people.”

“Yeah, Penny,” Julia said, grabbing a drink from Margo. “You should come. It’ll be fun.”

Penny’s eyes flicked over to Julia. “Okay, fine. I’ll come.” He said it like their whole night had been depending on it. 

“And maybe they like my dragon porn. Maybe that’s why they’re here. For all the dragon porn I have, like, literally draped all over my room.”

Penny gave a little huff that almost felt like a concession. “Then they’re total weirdoes, too.”

“We definitely are,” Julia said, giving Q a kiss on the cheek. Before grad school—before Alice and well, this most recent development—a kiss from Julia would have been a stultifying shock. But now it just felt real, felt comfortable. He’d spent so long wondering if they were going to fall in love, when they were going to fall in love. And as he’d grown, he’d come to realize that you don’t need every beacon of loveliness in life to fill that same role. Julia just felt like coming home, being whole. Growing up. And perhaps, as a result, he could be open to something else—something entirely new. 

And _oh_. Fuck. Eliot was going to be bartending. And Margo didn’t know about—yeah. And maybe—did she? Fuck. Quentin topped off his drink and knocked it back before getting out the red velvet cake that he’d picked up earlier that day. “Mistake to have cake now? Or should we have it for breakfast?”

“Mm, breakfast, definitely,” Margo said, pulling Julia down into a giggling hug. “I’m going to order Thai. We need solid food before going out.” 

“Get me two summer rolls and pad Thai with chicken,” Quentin said, pouring another drink.

“Typical, white boy. That’s literally the blandest thing you could order at any Thai restaurant anywhere.”

Quentin shrugged. “It’s delicious.”

Penny groaned. “Margo,” he almost shouted, because he was total shit at human interaction, “Get me a tofu green curry. Extra spicy. And… two summer rolls with shrimp.”

“That’s the most Penny’s ever said to me. We’re making progress, Quentin.”

Quentin laughed. “Maybe.”

Penny rolled his eyes, but his scowl didn’t look as scowl-y as before.

***

Quentin wasn’t sure if Eliot had actually noticed him yet. He’d been hiding behind his hair and most of a tall glass of something called a gin fizz. Julia and Margo were dancing hard and crazy, and some friend of Eliot’s—Josh—who everyone should really think was sketchy as all hell was offering pills ( _pure_ MDMA, no comedown, only the good feels) to all of them—for free. “A friend of Eliot’s is a friend of mine.”

That was kind of a tremendously terrible idea, but whatever. It was Julia’s birthday. And they could deal with her comedown with eggs, bagels, and a fuckload of Gatorade. He kind of guessed he wasn’t going home until last call—because it was Julia. And—when did Eliot get off work, anyway? He glanced over at the bar again. Long arms, strong hands, that swoop of curls over his forehead. God. Dark eye makeup. He was. Stunning. 

And it was fun. It was nice. Josh was a nice dude who liked a lot of the same nerdy shit as Quentin (and Margo, let’s be honest), and he enjoyed chatting back and forth about his cosplay plans and the VIP tickets he’d scored for Comic Con. ( _“I tell you, broseph, it’s going to be fucking insane. I’m cosplaying Captain Kirk—the OG—and—all the ladies love the cap.”_ )

Even Penny was having a good time in his own grumpy way, sort of dancing with Julia and chatting with Josh and some girl named Kady who apparently worked at the bar and was taking over Eliot’s shift when he was done. 

When Eliot was done. _Eliot. Eliot. There’s Eliot._ Whipping together drinks and not looking at Quentin and doing like, tricks with the drink mixer thingies and making eyes at all the boys and girls as they tried to stuff tips in his jar, in his vest, the loop of his belt. 

But Eliot hadn’t looked at Quentin once. Despite the texts, Quentin felt like he’d dreamed Eliot up from all of his adolescent fantasies and imagined that all the kissing—and the _sex_. He finished off his gin fizz and considered sneaking home to—work. Or jerk off and pass out. Or die of embarrassment. All of the above. Something. 

Josh came over to the small group with a whole tray of drinks, passing them out to Margo and Penny and Julia. He turned to Quentin with the last drink. “He said this one is for you. It’s a strawberry pomegranate mojito. Not quite in season, but I think the real truth here is that mojitos are never out of season. Eliot said you’d like it.”

A flush spread over Quentin’s chest and up to his cheeks. “Um. I. Thanks.”

“Everyone else has cheap vodka drinks. This is with the nice stuff. He must like you.” Josh winked at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Said you liked sweet drinks.”

“Um—I—um, yeah. I like sweet drinks.” Quentin was blushing furiously, but Josh didn’t seem like one to read social cues or realize what the volume of his voice was doing at any given time. 

“You should thank him,” Josh yelled. “He really likes you! I can tell! He pretends to be all detached—but he helped me move into my apartment last month—and he definitely _likes_ you!”

“Oh. Wow.” That was all Quentin could manage.

Quentin’s eyes darted over to Margo. She was attempting to do a shot off the top of Julia’s breasts—which was. Well, that was an image. Both of them were falling over laughing, and Penny was—remarkably—also laughing and trying not to look at them. And Kady had an actual bottle of bourbon she was using to refill the shot glasses, one after the other. It was safe to say that none of them had heard Josh. 

“He said, ‘Give this one to the cute guy with the great hair,’ and I mean, I don’t know if guys are cute, but you do have great hair. Very high fantasy. Total Legolas vibes.”

“Um. Okay.” Quentin’s stomach turned over. The bar was crowded, and every time he turned to look at Eliot, he was mixing another drink. He half-dreaded, half-wanted to catch his eye. But what would happen when Eliot realized that Quentin was Quentin, anyway? It was easy to get enough of him, and fast. Yeah, you know, therapists said that shitty self-talk was your mind playing tricks on you. But deep down, Quentin often felt the people in his life would eventually figure out what a burden he was. It was a raw, scraped-tender thought that sat at the center of Quentin’s psyche. It wasn’t that he had a hard time letting people in; it was more that he let those select people in with his entire heart. They took up residence immediately. That was the terrifying thing, really. Loving them so much and knowing that one day they’d finally have enough, and they’d leave. And knowing—letting Eliot in would be more dangerous than the others, all of them combined. He had the errant thought that it had already been done; he was helpless to it.

Josh was rambling on about some plant thing that Quentin normally would have been interested in, but he was having a hard time following a lot of it, and not only because he was starting to get pleasantly tipsy, just a little buzzed. Josh jumped around a lot when he talked, so Quentin kind of got the idea that he studied botany but also grew and sold all manner of drugs in a really affable and not at all scary way. He just wasn’t entirely sure about the nature of the botany career or where, in fact, he was completing his education. Josh may have said, but it got lost in the mix of his enthusiasm and his insistence that Eliot must _really_ like Quentin. And it felt like he kept saying it louder and louder. 

“My friends, um. Well, Julia and Margo—”

“The scary hot one and the nicer but also a little scary hot one?”

“That’s—not exactly how I’d put it but—yeah—they don’t know that. I’m. Friends? With Eliot. Not yet.” 

“Oh gotcha, _mon capitan_. Secret lovers.” He saluted at Quentin, who snorted, smiling. Honestly, it was good to have someone nerdier than he was nerding it out right next to him, with zero shame.

“Not. Secret. But.” Quentin shrugged. “Also—the word ‘lovers’ is weird. It’s not like um. I mean, I’m like. Eliot’s like fifty times hotter than anyone I’ve basically ever seen. So. It’s also just that Margo told me to—avoid him.”

“Ah. Yeah. Well. I mean, that’s sort of fair. But at his core, he’s a big softie. And he’s always been…” Josh searched for a word. “Generous. Plenty snarky. Conceited. But generous of spirit. Like the ghost of Christmas present in ‘Muppet Christmas Carol.’”

Quentin laughed. “Wow. That’s really not—how I see him. Or anyone? But that’s a nice movie.”

That girl Kady was now taking shots off of Julia, yelling, “It’s her birthday, losers!” Behind her, Margo was holding a fat binder, yelling and trying to orchestrate songs for karaoke—which Quentin was definitely not taking part in. Because, well, he couldn’t sing. Or dance. What was he doing here again?

Julia was glowing with all the attention. She was never an attention-hog sort of person, just someone who drew light from others, thrived in their presence, drew people to her, kept them in her orbit.

As one song faded into another, Quentin recognized the tune he’d danced to with Eliot the other night before they fell in bed together. And in his head, he heard Eliot’s voice, singing along with the lyrics, and it did _things_ to him, made him a weak in the knees. Before meeting Eliot, he’d thought that was just an idiom, a cliché thing people said. But here was Quentin, beneath the streaming loud lights, amidst the teeming sea of revelers, and his legs felt shaky—weak. He turned and looked, just looked, because he could, because he couldn’t not—at Eliot. His clever hands, the precise, methodical way he mixed drinks and served each customer with a dazzling smile. Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he? Dazzling. Brilliant and broken and bold and full, so full of something indescribably lovely, the bright, beaming core of him. And Quentin was—none of those things. 

He sighed and looked down into his drink, sipping at it and silently savoring the sweet and tart interplay of flavors, thinking _Eliot’s hands made this,_ and if he could take nothing but these small moments, little sparks of beauty, from this clearly uneven pairing that would surely end, Quentin thought he could be happy with that. Eliot stepped away from the bar for a moment and slipped into the small room behind it. 

In his pocket, Quentin’s phone buzzed. He fished his phone out of his pocket, keeping half an eye on his group of… well his group. He didn’t think he’d count Penny as a ‘friend.’ Penny was here to bone Julia, he figured. Which. Gross. He sighed and clicked on his messages.

 **Jim Davis:** you look incredible I want my hands on you my lips on you, unwrap you like a gift

Quentin bit at his lower lip, feeling exposed, fire blooming beneath his skin. Despite the appearance of disinterest, Eliot _had_ been looking at him. Watching him. Heat rose through his chest, running up his spine and out to the tips of his fingers. 

**Quentin:** the feeling is mutual I assure you

The typing bubble popped up immediately. Quentin flicked his eyes over to the bar, where Kady had slid in and started filling drink orders.

 **Jim Davis:** going to get your friends good and drunk and sneak you away. just for a few minutes they won’t know

He swallowed hard, looking back at Margo, who was now vehemently arguing with the deejay, who was lamely attempting to set up karaoke while Margo shouted at him. 

**Quentin:** yeah what are you going to do to me

His pulse pounded in his ears, blood zinging through his body, alive and alight. This wasn’t him. But he’d typed those words. 

**Jim Davis:** come over to the stock room, right by the exit, i’ll show you

Before he could overthink it, before he could hesitate or run or hide, he stuffed his phone in his pocket and pushed through the crowd, past his friends, muttering to Julia that he was going out for a smoke (even though he didn’t really smoke anymore), but she just nodded and pulled him in for a very drunk hug. They all had their own ideas for the purpose of the evening, and thankfully, most of it didn’t involve Quentin at all. They wouldn’t notice. 

In the dark of the hallway that extended behind the bar, all he could see was the red and white glow of the exit sign and the faintest hint of light coming from the room next to it. Heart slamming in his chest, he approached the door, and there was Eliot, reaching for him, pulling him in and immediately slamming the door behind them. 

“Hey,” Quentin murmured. 

“Hey.” Eliot kissed him immediately, pulling him close by the edges of his collar, fingers deftly unbuttoning his top buttons, hands reaching beneath to touch, Eliot’s fingers smooth against Quentin’s searing hot skin. A lightning bolt of need shot straight through him, blood rushing to his cock just from the gentlest touch and what—how long had it been—just Thursday morning when he’d seen him. His body melted into skin touching skin, like it had been months, years, an expanse of time longer than he could remember or imagine. 

When he _saw_ Eliot in the real world, apart from himself, yes, he wanted him. But even as he wanted him, he was filled with residual doubt. But when Eliot touched him, just in the few days he had known him, that doubt was replaced with surety, with knowledge and solidity and bright, all-consuming need that he felt inside the pithy, secret parts of him, the pieces he hid, the pieces he had yet to uncover. Eliot touching him was real. And right.

“Eliot,” he murmured, leaning up and kissing him, hard and deep and reckless, wrapping his arms around his slender waist. “El.”

“God—” Eliot’s hands roamed over him, under his shirt, over his cock, already half-hard and pressing against the worn-in gray jeans. He ran his lips over Quentin’s jawline, down from the sensitive lobe of his ear, trailing light and heat and warmth with every movement, every touch. “Why do I feel like—like I already know you—like you’re already—”

Eliot didn’t finish the thought, couldn’t, and Quentin knew it didn’t make any goddamn sense. But he knew what Eliot meant, didn’t he? He knew. Like they were already written on each other’s skin, coded into their bodies, like this had happened, was still happening, always would be. Those words weren’t things that could be said. They were too true and too unreal.

“Want you—so bad—” Eliot gasped against Quentin’s ear as Quentin touched him, the plane of his chest, his forearms where his shirtsleeves were rolled up, taking in the textures of him, the long lines and stretch of him. 

There was a hard rap at the door. “Eliot, get your dick out of whoever—”

“Whomever,” Quentin whispered. Eliot stifled a laugh and bit at his neck, sending a tight zing of pleasure straight to his center, activating something deep and bubbling, a deeper need. There was the tugging prickle of jealousy, the thought of Eliot bringing anyone else here. Which was insane—that was insane. They’d only just met, hadn’t they?

“Just a minute. Getting—stock—from the stock room—”

“They need you up at karaoke. I’m behind the bar with Pete—and I gotta go back. Get your ass out there. You know Pete’s a total dumbass.”

“I’m off the clock, and that’s—” Eliot said, irritated, brushing his thumb along Quentin’s jawline, sending ripples of that bone-deep need through him, pushing it toward boiling over. “Not my problem.”

“Seriously, I’m going to cut you if you don’t get out of there, Waugh.” A fist pounded against the door, more insistent this time, followed by a key turning in the lock.

“I’m _off_ the clock, Kady,” Eliot shouted back, pulling Q’s body away from the wall and shoving him against the door, thigh pressed between his legs. “And you shouldn’t try to come in here if you think there’s something you don’t want to see.” Eliot kissed him again, artful and hot, vibrating with pent-up want. His warm, dry hands lifted Quentin’s too-tight shirt and ran up the length of his abdomen, thumbs brushing over his nipples and—he couldn’t help but whine and pull Eliot in closer. Eliot moved his hands up and back over Quentin’s shoulders, up to the delicate skin of his neck, applying pressure but no pain, enough to keep him stilled and breathing hard. He was pinned there, caught between Eliot and the door thudding behind him as Kady tried to push. Caught and helpless, given over to the lust growing inside. He was hard, so hard. And he wanted Eliot’s mouth ( _still kissing him, tongue lapping into him wantonly_ ) and hands, wanted Eliot inside of him, taking him, using him.

Here, and only here, he was unable to drown in the roiling pit of uncertainty that plagued him always, but especially where it concerned attraction—and most especially where he was the object desired. It was unbelievable, wasn’t it, that these lips were against his—but the thought kept vanishing before it could fully form and become an awful, snarling thing targeted against him. The quavering core of him was surrounded and made steady by lips and hands and the exquisite feeling of the long, lean man raining kisses over his neck, his ears and his reddened lips.

There was another pound at the door, a huff in the hallway, and the angry _click-click-click_ of boots along the cement floor that led back to the bar.

“Hm.” Eliot looked at Quentin, focused his gaze, all deep green and starbursts of chestnut, rimmed with kohl and a blur of deep gold eyeshadow over his lids. He ran his thumb across Q’s lower lip, like he had before in the hazy near-insanity of their bodies pressed together. Quentin shuddered, whimpered. Really, it was undignified. But Eliot—this man who had rolled into his life like a storm, mercurial heat and lightning and high wind—drained him of all logic, all reason. Eliot’s mouth brushed against his again, teeth touching his lower lip and tugging gently. “I’m obsessed with your mouth,” he murmured, kissing him again, soft and slow, tongue playing against his. “That’s what I keep thinking about when I jerk off. Your lips.”

“Oh _fuck._ ” He was helpless. A heap of chaos, a jumble of emotions and desire in the form of a man. He crumpled in Eliot’s arms, giving himself over entirely—a thing he sometimes hated about himself but was such an essential part of him that it kicked in, reflexive and instinctual. Quentin gave himself wholeheartedly to anything that sparked life inside of him—the love of books and story and everything unreal and magical, to the hearts of people who cared for him, to the pursuit of finding _more_ , whatever that more was. And in the face of a force such as Eliot Waugh, he could only bow to his own nature, offer whatever it was that Eliot wanted and reserve the small hope that the giving wouldn’t leave him broken, as it so often did at the end of things. In that moment, of course, he could only thing of beginnings—of hot skin pressed to his, of drumming heart and blood and body, of being small and _spoiled_ like Eliot had promised (what were his promises worth? Quentin didn’t care—he’d unilaterally decided that it was worth the risk, anyway).

He moved his hand lower, grasping at the outline of Eliot’s length, hard and hot, through his tight pants. “I keep thinking about your cock, what I want you to do to me—”

“What’s that—”

“You know—” Heat bloomed in Quentin’s cheeks. “I want you to fuck me.”

Eliot moaned, kissed him again. The click-click of boots on the floor outside, another pounding, another voice. “Get the fuck out of there, Eliot,” a man’s voice came. 

“I do have to get karaoke started, I guess,” Eliot whispered, panting, brushing his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “The guy who does it is fucking worthless.”

Quentin groaned, aching for Eliot, for release, for the pleasure of this—doing this—just a door away from everyone outside. “And let me guess,” Quentin said, between soft kisses (because he couldn’t _not_ ), “you’re amazing at karaoke nights.”

“I am,” Eliot said, his face lighting up, kissing Quentin again. “I could even get you to sing.” He smoothed his hand over Quentin’s shirt and nipped at his neck again, still breathing hard but making a (feeble) attempt at separating from Quentin. 

“Seriously, get the fuck out of there, or I’m calling Marina—” The man’s voice again.

“Just give me a _fucking minute, _Pete.” A groan in the hallway, footsteps away again.__

__“I definitely don’t sing. I sing less than I dance,” Quentin said._ _

__“You danced with me.”_ _

__Quentin’s cheeks felt hot, and he ducked his head down against Eliot’s shoulder. “That was different. That was nice.”_ _

__“Dancing is all foreplay. I’ll get you to dance.” He kissed Quentin once more, moaning into his mouth, hand pressed possessively against Q’s throat. Which was—another thing he needed to unpack. But—really—really—mind-meltingly hot._ _

__“You can try,” Quentin said, as Eliot let go of him. “But remember, Margo might—I don’t know—kick you out of her project—”_ _

__“She can’t. And she won’t. And we’re… in a good place right now. Tentatively good.” Eliot pulled away from him and kissed him once more, more chaste this time._ _

__“Trust me. She’ll be pissed. But I’m at a point of not caring. I just need to tell her.” Quentin threw up his hands, like he certainly couldn’t account for Margo or her responses to anything Eliot or Quentin did. And he knew she was going to be pissed. He’d just have to convince her not to be pissed at _Eliot_. This was Quentin’s poor decision (and to be perfectly fucking frank, fucking around with Eliot was seeming like a better decision by the minute)._ _

__“Then we’ll survive it. Not everything can be fixed, but I want this to be.”_ _

__“I know you do, El.”_ _

__Eliot placed another kiss on Quentin’s lips, panting. “To be continued,” he murmured. “Think about baseball.”_ _

__“Baseball is the—fucking worst—” Quentin said (trying to think about baseball)._ _

__Eliot laughed and grabbed Quentin’s hand and pulled him out of the stock room (which Quentin made a mental note that he _definitely_ wanted to revisit at some point). “El,” Quentin said, heart beating fast. “Do you still want to see me Sunday?”_ _

__“Yeah. I do,” Eliot said, definitive, pulling Quentin to him in the dark of the hallway and tangling his fingers in Quentin’s hair._ _

__“Good—I—um. I’d really like to take you on a—date.” Quentin bit his lip._ _

__Eliot turned to him just as they walked out into the growing ocean of bodies and the lilting clips of karaoke they heard over the audience. “Yeah, I’d fucking like that a lot.”_ _

__Quentin bit his lip, flushing. “You would? Before?”_ _

__“Yeah.” He still had Quentin’s hand in his and he laced their fingers together, bringing his hand to his mouth and kissing each one of Quentin’s knuckles. In the dim, moving light, Quentin knew that no one could see them. But he wished, as strange and wild it was, as livid as he knew his (their?) friends (Margo) might be, he wished he could share this, show them. Whatever this was, anyway. It was stronger and stranger than anything Quentin had ever felt, had ever thought about feeling. Eliot turned to him and quickly kissed him again before pulling him into the crowd._ _

__“So, karaoke,” Quentin said, trying to project his voice over the crowd, readjusting himself, refocusing._ _

__“Yeah, you have no idea.” Eliot let go of Quentin’s hand and slipped his arm around the small of his back, letting it drop once they saw Julia and Margo. Eliot nonchalantly delivered Quentin to his friends—Quentin, who was still vibrating, who felt like he might lift off, float away above the bar, above the haze of Manhattan, into the night air, the stars, the cosmos. He watched as Eliot went up to the stage, a mile tall, hair perfectly curled over his forehead despite hours of tending bar—nothing mussed. Quentin was fairly certain his hair was doing a static-halo-wave thing since Eliot couldn’t keep his fingers out of it ( _oh my God_ ). _ _

__A small hand curled around his shoulders, and he looked over ( _please be Julia_ ) to see Margo, studying him like she had been before. “Julia said you went to go smoke. You’re not smoking anymore. Not that I know of.”_ _

__“I just needed some space,” Quentin said breezily. It seemed like something he would say—had said—in situations like these, in throngs of people dancing and drinking. “And I realized I did have a couple of cigarettes with me.” He shoved his hand in his back pocket to show her a smashed carton containing exactly two cigarettes and a battered Bic lighter._ _

__“Okay. Well. I’m just checking on you, puppy. I know this isn’t your thing. But Julia’s really glad you’re here. She’s having a damn good time and might wind up riding Penny’s dick, if I had to put a bet on it.”_ _

__“Oh wow. That’s. Hm. I don’t know how I—well, she’s an adult. But Penny?”_ _

__Margo shrugged. “He’s hot as fuck. And seems to thrive with about four strong drinks in him, like his whole asshole charade slips away. And you like who you like, I guess. When it comes down to it. Everyone has a type, huh?”_ _

__Quentin swallowed hard. Margo’s words were often wrapped in approximately fifty layers of meaning, lest she sound too emotional. And sometimes, oh Jesus, it was so confusing._ _

__“We’ve got our first song of the night,” came a cheerful voice from the direction of the stage. “I’m your emcee, Todd, and I’ll be queuing up these _amazing_ songs you guys have requested. Our very—talented—bartender is helping me put all of it together.” Behind him, Eliot very distinctly rolled his eyes. “So, now we’ve got our first song of the night, sung by the truly mighty Julia, coming all the way in from Connecticut—”_ _

__Julia teetered a little as she ascended the stairs to the stage and took the microphone. “What’s up everybody! It’s my fucking birthday!”_ _

__Loud whoops and cheers came from the audience, followed by, a yell from Margo. “Happy birthday you sassy bitch!”_ _

__“Happy birthday, Jules,” Quentin yelled in the direction of the stage. Eliot, walking down from the stage, looked in his direction, locking eyes with Quentin for just a moment. A quick thrill ran through him because it was secret, wasn’t it? It was just for him._ _

__The music started, and Quentin groaned. Julia, being Julia, was belting out ‘Wrecking Ball’ with all the verve and gusto of a very drunk, possibly high, tiny ball of energy in for the weekend from Yale Law._ _

__She gestured sloppily at Quentin and Margo but managed to hit all the notes. “Don't you ever say I just walked away—I will always want youuuu—I can't live a lie, running for my life—”_ _

__Quentin laughed and impulsively pulled Margo in for a hug. Julia was _happy_ , maybe for the first time since James split up with her (which was the most royally stupid thing he’d ever done—but maybe, even though he did adore James in his all of his milquetoast jock glory, maybe it had been the right thing ultimately since Julia was Julia, smarter and wittier and kinder than everyone, and she deserved a great love, something special, something she didn’t have to settle for)._ _

__“You’re handsy when you’re drunk, Coldwater,” Margo said, slow and languid, taking a sip of her own drink. Assessing. Reading him._ _

__“Just happy,” he said, beaming. It helped that he could see Eliot at the edge of the crowd, talking to Josh and then sauntering toward the bar to demand that Kady refill his flask._ _

__“Seen something you like?” Margo said. She’d had—who knew—maybe four or five strong drinks, but she was still as bright and focused as ever._ _

__“Hm, no,” Quentin said, clearing his throat. “I just—it’s nice to see Julia being—well, having fun.”_ _

__“That’s all. I gotcha. Definitely not anything else.”_ _

__Someone sidled up next to him and slipped a drink in his hand, something pale red and fizzy, and Quentin’s stomach dropped about a thousand feet off a cliff when he looked up and saw Eliot. He handed another drink to Margo, which was, like marginally less suspicious. Julia was more hitting the refrain of ‘Wrecking Ball,’ garbling a couple of words, but she did so with gusto and gave what Quentin thought was a reasonably good version of Miley Cyrus._ _

__Margo just sipped her drink and looked up at Eliot. “Graceful performance. That’s our law school friend.”_ _

__“Truly stunning,” Eliot replied, as Julia stumbled off the stage and directly onto Penny. “A tour de force.”_ _

__Quentin snorted, looking studiously ahead at the stage and taking sips of his drink (delicious, sweet and strong). “She makes up for anything else with enthusiasm.”_ _

__“I’d definitely agree,” Eliot said. His body was so close and warm, pressed almost against Quentin (which was suspicious—but would be more suspicious if he weren’t terribly mismatched with Eliot, he thought, nonsensically, so no one _could_ know, could they?). “But I’m not sure that’s her true karaoke song.”_ _

__There was someone else on stage now, belting out The Backstreet Boys—tunelessly._ _

__“Oh, and you have a _true_ karaoke song?” Margo asked. _ _

__“Several.” Eliot’s gaze was studiously glued to the person making an asshat of himself on stage. “And they’re all excellent. As you would suspect.”_ _

__“What does it take for a song to qualify, oh Great Big Dick Energy? I’m genuinely interested to hear your arrogance in the form of an explanation.”_ _

__Eliot huffed, but he was clearly enjoying himself. The two of them felt—hesitant. But somehow better than before. And Quentin was surrounded and bubbly and contained, despite the fact that Margo might literally kill him for the game of deceit he’d been playing over the past few days. (Had it only been that long? It seemed like—so much time had passed. Contained in all these short moments. And maybe she wouldn’t be. That mad.)_ _

__“Right range, Bambi. Right subject matter. Songs must be simple enough for a medium audience, not too serious. Must be upbeat. Memorable. Fun. A bit sexy.”_ _

__“And are you going to—sing tonight?” Quentin asked, his throat a little dry. He sipped at the fizzy, strong drink that _Eliot_ had made for him, and he shuddered a little because this couldn’t be happening—it still couldn’t be real. He closed his eyes for a second, a searing, electric surge pouring through him. _ _

__“Hm. Yes. I always do. Can’t help myself. I was a drama kid before I was a fashion kid.”_ _

__“Figures,” Margo said. “I’m like negative 48% surprised.”_ _

__They talked over and around him, so that finally the three of them were in a tight triangle between all the people watching the stage and dancing, singing along. And Quentin felt cozier, somehow, out here among these people, than he had in a long time. Julia was paying a _lot_ of attention to Penny, which Margo found hilarious and really—Quentin didn’t know how he found it. Neutral to not at all hilarious? At some point, the other bartender, Kady, took to the stage to sing. She was—wow—really—intimidating? And talented. And singing Annie Lennox better than Annie Lennox did. _ _

__Eliot was laughing, and Quentin finished his drink and felt nervously heated ( _Eliot’s mouth, the hard outline of his cock_ ), but _content_ , like he was where he should be. _ _

__Eliot reached in his pocket and pulled out his flask and drank. He gave a shrug. “I’m the bartender. I can get away with having multiple karaoke songs.” Eliot flashed him a winning grin, and Quentin figured he could probably get away with just about anything, given the circumstances. Eliot’s knuckles brushed the back of his hand when he pocketed his flash, and Quentin’s body felt buzzy and light and heady, and he couldn’t help smiling and just _gazing_ at Eliot, who glanced at him, striking and intense and royal._ _

__“I’m up, next maybe. A song. If _Todd_ doesn’t fuck it up. And—Josh will get you more drinks.” He put his hand on the small of Quentin’s back for just a moment, nothing noticeable, an absent touch. But a touch of wanting—he could _feel_ it. _ _

__Quentin was halfway to drunk and probably beaming—leering?—at Eliot, because he couldn’t _help it_. Margo glanced over at Eliot but spared Quentin a quick—and possibly skeptical or… knowing—look. Quentin’s stomach flipped. Eliot was pressed close to him, which was—well. There were a lot of people there. It was… acceptable. Right? Normal. His heart was pounding hard, and he fumbled over accepting another drink from Josh (another gin fizz? He shouldn’t be mixing alcohol) as Eliot brushed against his arm and made his way to the stage. _ _

__Margo grabbed his arm. “That tall drink of water is doing his whole song and dance like we’ve all always been friends. I don’t even fucking know this Josh. Or Kady. Or really Penny, who—invited himself?”_ _

__Quentin take a large gulp of his drink (it was sweet and went down easy) and flicked his eyes over to Margo. “You invited Penny, Margo. Just to cause, um. Chaos? Really, that one’s on you.”_ _

__“You know. I’m a smart woman, Coldwater. And something is very weird here. And it all has to do with _him_.” She pointed at Eliot, who had the mic in his hands and was looking directly at Quentin—and God, fine. It was all _really odd_. Mostly, Quentin's thoughts on oddness had revolved around the fact that gorgeous, stylish Eliot had looked at him in the first place, and he hadn’t given much thought that he wanted to reconnect with Margo. Because who didn’t want to be friends with Margo (besides people who were scared of her, and even then)?_ _

__“Yeah, well. Maybe he’s… he really does want to be your friend. I thought you wanted the same thing. Both of you. It makes sense.”_ _

__“What do _you_ know?”_ _

__“I know you accepted his offer to come to this bar and—um, the drinks are free? He’s probably putting himself out there with his manager. Or boss. Or whatever. I wouldn’t know.”_ _

__“You wouldn’t know?”_ _

__“This song works best in small groups—picture Korean-style karaoke with unlimited whiskey,” Eliot drawled. “But its merit can’t be understated, even in a venue such as this.” (Laughter, cheers from the audience; they knew him.)_ _

__“He’s showing off,” Margo said, fondness in her voice. She crossed her arms, though, and sort of glared at Quentin._ _

__“He’s good at it. Showing off,” Quentin replied, downing more of his drink. Like if he drank enough, Margo wouldn’t or couldn’t notice what his face was doing whenever he looked at Eliot. Which was—hungry and hot and sappy, he guessed. “He wants you to think he’s fun.”_ _

__“He is fun. That’s the problem. We were always supposed to be friends—and I want that—” She trailed off. “Fuck. I’m getting maudlin. Fuck these drinks. John—Josh—” She yelled. “—get me another goddamn drink—” She clinked the ice in her glass in Josh’s direction, and Josh looked willing to do just about anything for Margo. He nodded happily and wandered off in the direction of the bar._ _

__Sure, Quentin didn’t know the half of it. He assumed shit went down since—from both sides, now—he’d gotten the story of their tumultuous friendship ending very abruptly._ _

__The opening chords sounded from the speaker, and the karaoke screen lit up. “Oh my God,” Quentin gasped. “David Bowie.”_ _

__Margo snorted. “Ziggy Stardust? That’s on the nose, even for that chucklefuck. Bold choice. Fuckin’ respect.”_ _

__“Ziggy played for time, jiving us that we were voodoo—”_ _

___Holy fuck, this is uncontrollably fucking—_ _ _

__“Now Ziggy really sang, screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo—like some cat from Japan, he could lick 'em by smiling—he could leave 'em to hang—Came on so loaded man, well hung and snow white tan…”_ _

___Uncontrollably fucking hot. Dizzying._ And Eliot, Eliot was looking at him. And it was almost too much. Was it hot in the bar? It was hot, like the heat was on too high—hot._ _

__Margo grabbed him again, viciously sipping at another drink. “You know, you won’t be able to get it up for _Jim Davis_ if you keep eye-fucking Eliot while he sings Bowie at you.”_ _

__“Hm? What? I—um—I mean, I’m not _seeing_ anyone, really. I didn’t, haven’t seen _Jim_ —he, we. The date didn’t go all that well. So.”_ _

__“The kid was just crass, he was the nazz—with God given ass—he took it all too far, but boy could he play guitar,” he sang. Of course, Eliot had fucking perfect pitch and hit everything with that smooth voice, round and rich as it was (and always putting Quentin in mind of something he’d heard, maybe, once, long ago)._ _

__“Yeah, okay, Q. Everyone has their type, don’t they? I guess _Jim Davis_ wasn’t your type.”_ _

__“I don’t know—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_ _

__“Your girl type is really busty and high-strung—”_ _

__“Margo, fucking Christ.”_ _

__“And every guy you pointed out in that bar looked like he could pick you up and fold you in half. And I know not everyone knows—but I know about your whole Mulder-David Bowie eyeliner fantasy—”_ _

__“I don’t have a—what?” (But he did, honestly. And Margo did know.)_ _

__“And that’s literally the most extra thing anyone has ever fantasized about—I mean, maybe not, but it’s close. And then you have—” She pointed at Eliot, who was singing the last notes of the song, fucking perfectly. “And he’s trying to—I don’t know—his intentions definitely don’t involve not fucking you. He is into _you_.”_ _

Quentin went red. “Me? No. That’s unlikely. I’m not his type. I’m like a lot certain about that.” He fumbled over the words because he didn’t really know if what he was saying was correct. Because—you see—he’d spent a few very fine hours now in bed with Eliot, who had rather viscerally demonstrated that Quentin wasn’t _not_ his type. And then there was all the. Kissing. And the _'I’m definitely going to fuck you'_ of it all, back in the stock room. 

__“I’m fairly fucking certain about his type. I know he’s not seeing his dolt of a fucking ex anymore. And I also know about the guys he went for before and after. He’d swear up and down he doesn’t have any kind of a type, but he does.” Margo shrugged. “I’m just saying. He’s funny and beautiful and clever and completely over-the-top in the way that makes your dick short-circuit. But he’s a wreck. He might be trying to get himself together. But he’s a wrecked human being—and he just—doesn’t care about himself. That’s the problem. It’s always been the problem.”_ _

__Something felt crushed inside of Quentin when she said that, something protective and embracing. “So what, Margo? We’re all damaged. What are you saying, anyway?”_ _

__“Just that you need to be careful with yourself. There’s more at play here than—just—fucking Eliot wanting to fuck you. I can feel it. And it’s—not normal. There’s never been anything normal about how—” She was also on the border of drunk, and her typically filthy eloquence was starting to fade. “There’s never been anything normal about fucking. Eliot. And how he interacts with the world. Like. He wasn’t meant to be here or. Didn’t want to be. And now he’s back—in my life. I don’t want him to—implode. And that’s where I think this is heading. That’s what it feels like. A bomb ready to go off. I just don’t want you around—when it happens.”_ _

__“It’s not relevant, Margo. Since it’s not a thing.” His voice was more defensive than he intended._ _

__Infuriatingly, she brushed her hand against his arm, sisterly. “Yeah, well, I get that he’s a total walking Ken doll with eye makeup and a giant dick. So I can’t blame you. But don’t go down that road. You get your shit together and let him do the same.”_ _

__In that moment, he hated her just a little. Because it was sage advice. And it didn’t just have to do with him. She was right (always). There was something happening, something that felt— _off_. But it didn’t have to do with Eliot and his fucking issues (which were like, obvious, and plentiful—but no one was perfect, really, when it came down to it). It had to do with something bigger, and it wasn’t at all obvious what that something was. Margo didn’t know. And Quentin didn’t really know. And Eliot might kind of know, but not the whole of it. Quentin could taste it in the air around them, something above the ordinary sounds and scents of the bar. And no, it wasn’t ordinary. And no, he knew he’d be unable to pull himself away. He wanted _in_ , whatever it was. Whatever was happening with Eliot._ _

__Margo quickly returned to normal when Eliot reappeared beside them. She chatted about Quentin ‘updating his wardrobe’ and how it was a ‘dire situation,’ especially with those jeans fitting him so well, and it was a fucking crime to wear all of his clothes two sizes too big. And Eliot kept saying unhelpful things like, ‘They really do fit so well,’ and ‘It would be a shame not to show yourself off, Q.’ Which was. Really, really _obvious_ , but Quentin wouldn’t say it was unwelcome. It was just inconvenient. Margo stared at him with that deathly stare when Eliot wasn’t looking._ _

__Julia hopped over at some point, throwing her arms around Quentin. “This is so much funnnn,” she said, sort of flailing and trying to dance. “We should dance. I love dancing with you, Q. Is this fashion ho—”_ _

__“Charmed,” Eliot said. “Yes, that must be me.” He shook Julia’s hand, and she giggled uncontrollably._ _

__“He’s fucking hot. Is he Jim Davis or—”_ _

__“Julia,” Margo snapped. “Get a grip.”_ _

__“Q—dancing. Ayo Technology!”_ _

__“That sounds like an intensely beautiful idea,” Eliot snarked, definitely amused._ _

__“Your hips, your thighs, you got me hypnotized, let me tell you—” Julia started, giving a hip thrust. “Ayo, I’m tired of using technology—”_ _

__“No, oh, nope. Definitely not dancing. I’m like, five drinks away from being able to do that. And by that time, I won’t be able to dance. So it’s a Catch-22, and you definitely, for absolutely sure,” Quentin slurred a little, “won’t be able to get me to dance. Because I won’t.”_ _

__“But you really should. And Todd can probably manage to find 50 Cent and J-Tims in his repertoire. It would be on brand for him. I’m going to text him.”_ _

__“No, don’t—”_ _

__But Eliot had already done it, and after the next song ended, he heard Todd (who the fuck was Todd, anyway?) announcing that he had a _special birthday request_ for Julia and her friend, Quentin. _ _

__Quentin groaned. “You are the worst person.”_ _

__“I’ll reward you,” Eliot whispered._ _

__Julia was already squealing, dragging Quentin up in front of the stage, where, horrifyingly, people had cleared a spot. “Okay, fuck. Julia. If I do this, I need like, two more shots.”_ _

__“Shots!” Kady yelled. She poured two shots of bourbon, shoving them at Quentin and Julia. They took them, and Quentin gestured for another. Kady complied, and Quentin let the burn sink in as the song started._ _

___"She she, she want it, I want to give it to her. She know that, it's right here for her… I want to, see you break it down… I’m ballin', throwin' money around."_ _ _

__Julia was already thrusting her hips, and Quentin groaned loud. “Noooo,” he managed, but Julia grabbed his hand, and he fell in line with her, doing the dance they’d choreographed together in the tenth grade after they took shots of Julia’s dad’s whiskey. And somehow, she’d managed to get Quentin to do it at prom (sober), and it was seared into Quentin’s memory. So he did it. Because it was Julia’s birthday. And he was _happy_. _ _

__“She always ready, when you want it she want it… Like a nympho, the info, I show you where to meet her… On the late night, till daylight the club jumpin’… If you want a good time, she gone give you what you want…”_ _

__Julia somehow still knew all the words, which was hilarious—and Quentin was _really drunk_ now, and when they were done, they bowed to the audience. And it didn’t really matter that he was in deep shit with Margo, or that Eliot was still definitely a bad idea made of red flags. _ _

__He fell into Eliot when Todd called the next karaoke singer up on the stage. And Eliot put his arm around Quentin, pulling him in close, which was—he couldn’t really resist that, not after Bowie, not after dancing. Who would blame him? And Margo was now dancing with Julia again, and it’s not like anyone noticed, not any more than they already had. Josh was trying to talk to Penny again, who was giving serious _fuckoff_ vibes, and Kady was pouring shots—more shots—and okay, the whole thing sort of seemed like a dumpster about to get set on fire._ _

__“Come home with me,” Eliot whispered, brushing his fingers over Quentin’s shoulder (thunderous heat and longing, just from that touch, overwhelming and wanting _morenowplease_ ). Quentin leaned his head in because he was, let’s face it, pretty wasted, and Eliot still smelled good, even if it was a bar smell—whiskey and cigarettes and just a hint of that citrusy sharpness, and something beneath all of that, a distinctly Eliot scent that Quentin would wrap himself in if he could. _ _

__“I shouldn’t. Jules is crashing at my apartment. I should be there.” He looked up (because he had to do that with Eliot), and he saw those dark eyes, locked on him, filled with yearning. And how was this Quentin’s life? It wasn’t one he recognized._ _

__“Hm. Okay. Just an offer if you needed a getaway. I promise I’ll be a gentleman.”_ _

__Quentin laughed. “Because you’re such a gentleman.”_ _

__“I am nothing but.”_ _

__“Listen, El—”_ _

__“Hmm, I like when you call me that.” Around them, the crowd was thinning out. It was close to last call. “Sounds sexy.”_ _

__“Shhhh, no.” Quentin laughed, pushing him away just a little bit (but then drawing him back because he wanted his eyes and lips and hands on him, always)._ _

__“Last call—” The man’s (Pete?) voice came from the bar, and there were dramatic sighs and moans from all over the bar._ _

__Margo—Margo!—had climbed up on stage for the final song. “This one is for Julia. Because I love you, bitch. I ain’t never going to stop loving you—”_ _

__Julia squealed with glee. “Margooooo! I love youuu!”_ _

__“Oh my God. This is really off brand for Margo,” Quentin laughed._ _

__“On brand for drunk Margo.” Eliot slipped his hand in Quentin’s back pocket, and who was he to stop him?_ _

__The song started up and—oh no—Margo was singing. “I love myself, I want you to love me—When I feel down, I want you above me—I search myself, I want you to find me—I forget myself, I want you to remind me—”_ _

__“That might be her one true karaoke song,” Eliot murmured, somehow drawing Quentin closer._ _

__“I don’t want anybody else—when I think about you, I touch myself—”_ _

__Julia was screaming by this point, delighted._ _

__“Come home with me. I want to touch you,” Eliot murmured, soft, against Quentin’s ear, sending soft, sweet shudders through him in the fog of alcohol and music and Margo singing._ _

__“I need to get Julia home.”_ _

__“Then come over.”_ _

__“Maybe.” Quentin glanced at Eliot’s face for a moment to drink in that hot and serious look._ _

__“I’ll take a maybe.”_ _

__Eliot still had his arm around Quentin when everyone started shuffling out of the bar, and Quentin didn’t try to pull away, even when Margo gave him a very drunken glare. But Julia was falling all over Margo, who was trying to pull her up, and they were chattering, arguing, about something._ _

__“He’s an adult—” he heard Julia say. “An adult—come on—”_ _

__Quentin swallowed hard. So this, this was about him._ _

__Margo stormed up to him, a small ball of anger. She grabbed Quentin’s hand and dragged him away from Eliot. “I don’t know how much exactly you lied to me, Quentin, but you did. For what? For him?” She gestured at Eliot, who had his arms crossed, sighing into the cold night._ _

__“Yeah. Fuck, Margo. I don’t want you to be angry at me.” Quentin was drunk. So very, very drunk. “That’s why I made up the whole—Jim Davis thing. And I wanted to tell you. Because. I wanted to. I did. I just didn’t want you to be mad.”_ _

__“You see—Margo, I love you—” Julia started. “But if this guy—”_ _

__“I’m right here,” Eliot said._ _

__“If this is what Quentin wants, let him—make his own mistakes—”_ _

__“I’m not a mistake,” Eliot quipped._ _

__“Quentin, you don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want to see you—fuck, I hate this emotional bullshit, and here you all are. And I fucking—care about you, Quentin,” Margo said. She looked over at Eliot. Fucking dumpster fire. “And he—I had to—fuck. You know what? He can tell you. Because you’re obviously going home with him. See if he texts you again after that. He won’t.”_ _

__Eliot stepped up and gently took Margo’s hand away from Quentin. “Margo. Don’t speak for me. It sounds like you and I—have some more to talk about. But don’t assume that I’m going to break Quentin. Or ditch him.”_ _

__Quentin’s head was spinning because he so thought this was _not_ how this night was going to go. It was—not what he pictured (but what had he been picturing?). _ _

__“Come on, I’ll go home with you, Margo,” Julia slurred, her arm around Margo. “We both need a metric fuck ton of water and everyone—everyone can be fine in the morning. I have confidence that we’re all fine.”_ _

__“Fine,” Margo spat. “Fucking fine.”_ _

__Quentin watched numbly as Julia pulled Margo in the direction of her apartment. Julia turned back and blew him a kiss. “It’ll be okay,” she mouthed. “Promise.” Quentin just shrugged at her, a little too drunk to comprehend any of it._ _

__“Y’all are a bunch of crazy motherfuckers,” Penny griped and stalked off toward their apartment, which, Quentin guessed was his form of farewell. (And not exactly how Penny had wanted his night to end.)_ _

__Eliot took his hand and pulled Quentin close to him, tipping his chin up so he could look into his eyes. “I’m not planning to stop texting you. Or hitting on you. Or making you do sexy dances at my behest. Do you believe me?”_ _

__Quentin laughed, a little bitter, a little thrilled. “Yeah. I guess I do.”_ _

__“Good. I want you to come home with me, still. Do you want to?”_ _

__Quentin nodded. “Yeah.” He let Eliot’s long arm encompass him. He watched as Eliot lit a cigarette, smoking it, never letting his arm leave Quentin’s body._ _

__They walked toward Eliot’s studio apartment. Quentin supposed this was his decision. Margo said it was a bad one. The incorrect one. But what choice did he have, really, when it came down to Eliot Waugh?_ _

__None, he supposed. And for tonight, drunk and cold but encompassed by Eliot, he didn’t especially care._ _


	18. [Interlude Two: A Story Told in Texts]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a tease for the next chapter.

~Quentin and Julia~  
Saturday 2:22AM  
**Quentin** : im so so so sorrry juls i didn mean ta ditch u i luv u u know that  
**Jules** : dude go to bed it’s fine I got him safe with margo  
**Jules** : u two have shit to work out  
**Quentin** : im so sry it was ur birthday  
**Jules** : my birthday was awesome quit whining enjoy ur hot tall guy  
**Jules** : and im at margos i’m safe and fine and ANNOYED at u yes but not mad b/c im also ANNOYED at margo ok  
**Jules** : itll all be fine i promise just dont lie ok  
**Quentin** : i won’t im so fucking sory  
**Jules** : go to bed Q

~Penny and Quentin~  
Saturday 2:25AM  
**Penny** : u got back to that guys apartment safe  
**Quentin** : yes?  
**Penny** : fuck you good night

~Quentin and Julia~  
Saturday 10:49AM  
**Quentin** : do you guys want to have brunch or something. With me and eliot  
**Jules** : I do. I don’t think Margo does, honestly. She’s still sleeping told me not to wake her  
**Quentin** : I’m going to shower and we’re going to Cafe Clover on downing I do want you to come please my treat 11:30  
**Jules** : yeah ok I’ll leave margo a note u want me to tell her to come?  
**Quentin** : Yeah even if she won’t this middle school shit shouldn’t be clogging up our friendship  
**Jules** : pretty dramatic over a guy  
**Quentin** : He’s a dramatic guy  
**Jules** : Must be if he caused all this much trouble  
**Quentin** : I pretty much caused it myself  
**Jules** : I won’t argue that point but Margo really didn’t help she loves you though you know that you both need to fix this shit  
**Quentin** : yeah I know

~Julia~  
Saturday 10:55AM  
**Julia** : Q wants us to come to breakfast at clover 11:30 am  
**Julia** : he wants to apologize  
**Julia** : he really wants u to come  
**Julia** : he loves you he doesn’t want to have this shit going on but I think he really likes this guy

~Margo and Julia~  
Saturday 11:15AM  
**Margo** : bitch did you leave  
**Julia** : no im here  
**Margo** : give me like 5 minutes  
**Julia** : sure because it takes you 5 minutes to do anything  
**Margo** : okay like 15 minutes. i really need 2 wash my face I’ll be quick

~Julia and Quentin~  
Saturday 11:16AM  
**Julia** : running late like 11:45  
**Quentin** : I take it margo is coming  
**Julia** : yep

~Eliot and Margo~  
Saturday 11:18AM  
**Eliot** : hey margo  
**Eliot** : you’re coming to breakfast right  
**Eliot** : i am really sorry about everything  
**Eliot** : i knew from the get that q wasn’t telling you and it’s because of me  
**Eliot** : i know i’m really the worst about everything and i am terrible at friendship and relationships  
**Eliot** : but i’m not going to hurt him  
**Eliot** : and i’m not going to lie to you and tell you i’m going to keep my distance because i’m not  
**Margo** : fuck  
**Margo** : talk to me after i’ve had at least two mimosas ok  
**Margo** : i’m going to delete this whole text thread its making my hangover worse  
**Eliot** : youre coming tho?  
**Margo** : Fuck you yes i am shape the shit up i’m not a wellspring of fucking second chances Eliot  
**Margo** : okay?  
**Eliot** : ok

~Alice and Quentin~  
Saturday 11:43AM  
**Alice** : we need to talk Q  
**Quentin** : No  
**Alice** : I can meet you this afternoon  
**Quentin** : I have plans with the guy I’m dating. He hasn’t called me an emotional sinkhole yet so  
**Quentin** : So I’m going to the park with him  
**Quentin** : And we can talk later if it’s something completely unrelated to our trash fire of a relationship  
**Alice** : Wow ok we need to talk though can I call you?  
**Quentin** : no we’re going to brunch goodbye Alice 

~Todd and Eliot~  
Saturday 12:00PM  
**Fucking Todd** : Hey bro are you working tonight 

Saturday 12:32PM  
**Fucking Todd** : Yo man, we need ‘all hands’ isn’t that kind of a funny expression? Like we need your hands lol but we need YOU too  
**Fucking Todd** : So Marina says we should all be there. She told me to let you know.

Saturday 1:13PM  
**Fucking Todd** : Bro! Let me know if you can make it in tonight. 7PM. “Team Meeting.” LOL like we work at Target

Saturday 2:01PM  
**Fucking Todd** : I know you must be super busy!! Just let me know if you can make it.  
**Eliot** : i’ll be there  
**Fucking Todd** : Hey man! I was getting worried!! Don’t leave me hanging like that man!! What are your plans this afternoon?  
**Eliot** : busy. see you later.


	19. Spinning on That Dizzy Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said. New Cure lyrics. I'm running out of Pictures of You. Don't hate. 
> 
> Well, here we are, and I’m putting in another sex scene because I just watched 4X13 and I have a lot of big feelings. And I’m still sad. And they just deserve to fuck around in the shower and go to brunch and—well, no more spoilers. Fluffy, smutty, sexy, CRACK. A bit of angst toward the end of the chapter. But mostly lots of fluffiness. Because Eliot was robbed. And Quentin deserved so much better.
> 
> TW: previous mention of Q's canonical depression, Eliot's canonical trauma and drinking and drugs. Not much of that, though.

~Eliot~

Eliot woke, fuzzy-headed and sore, with a mouthful of Quentin’s hair. Quentin, who was hotly pressed against him, head tucked against the side of his neck, was snoring ever so faintly, like a cat. He hadn’t intended to pull Quentin into him, to cling to him like the last life raft thrown overboard. He hadn’t meant to pull Quentin into this at all, but it had all happened so fast, and it didn’t seem that either of them had much say in the matter.

_(He’d done that with Mike—hadn’t he—and it had all been his fault that it backfired, that—all of that shit—had happened.)_

No. This was. Quentin. He was gentle and good. And he—knew about Mike. It wasn’t Eliot’s fault, as much as he felt like it really, really _was_. 

There were the new memories of Mike that had come after the accident, the amnesia, the onslaught of the not-memories from the Other Eliot. The pictures ebbed and flowed, but they’d become clearer over the past few days. And frankly, he couldn’t reconcile those visions with reality. In every world, however, Mike was kind of a piece of shit. And definitely a Republican. And always a place-filler for something—someone—else. 

Oh, God. The not-memories of not-Eliot. Other Eliot. He blinked hard. He had found, over the past week, that he couldn’t fucking drink them away. Which was a shame, really, because alcohol worked so nicely for so many things like that. The not-memories just seemed to grow stronger, worse around Quentin. Around Margo. Even the—others, he thought. 

He removed Quentin’s hair from his mouth, and Quentin moved slightly, pouring his bare body onto Eliot’s, moving almost on top of him, so hungry for touch, even asleep, even in the hard, early light of a hungover Saturday morning. They were naked (because of course they were), not that they’d been in any state to do much about that when they stumbled up the stairs to Eliot’s apartment, Quentin babbling about what a terrible friend he was and Eliot assuring him that he wasn’t, kissing him quiet, making him kick off his ever-present boots (did he own other shoes?), peeling off the shirt that Quentin said was too tight (it wasn’t), his threadbare undershirt, the jeans that made his ass look like a delicious snack (it definitely was), his beat-up socks, one of which had a small hole at the toe (Eliot could darn that, he’d thought absently, because sometimes the _farm wife_ part of him bled through). And Quentin’s fingers, hungry, had gripped and pulled (and maybe ripped; he’d deal with that later) the outfit he’d selected that night (Merona had surprisingly nice waistcoats when one took the time to tailor them) and they’d fallen together (they kept doing that) into Eliot’s bed—wanting, but so tired, and Quentin so ragged; he’d wept and apologized for crying. And Eliot—Eliot had told him he never had to say he was sorry for showing emotion, which was _rich_ of Eliot to say since he’d spent his formative years crafting a cool and careless exterior, something to be admired from a distance, a mirror to deflect messy emotions and difficult decisions. (And the rest of the things he didn’t like—he’d killed with alcohol and drugs.) 

But Quentin made him feel—tender. And as much as he hated the things that had changed him—all the quite honestly terrifying not-quite-memories he had contained in the small space of his mind (no mind was meant to hold this much; he was drowning in it), he’d found Quentin. Q was at the core of this, at the core of him, and he was intent on—keeping him whole. Safe. That idea, that _need_ to _keep_ Quentin, hovered at the edges of his thoughts, surged when he held him, when he kissed him. And oh, how he wanted him. Like he’d wanted escape from Indiana and the farm and the fucking church, like he’d wanted New York, a clean start, a new path. He wanted Quentin, deeply and fully, without bounds. Maybe so much that it wasn’t even fair to Quentin—who hadn’t been hit on the head and gotten— _what?_ —access to some other time or world or both (how the fuck was this possible?). Or maybe he was simply insane. He’d had that thought a lot lately. In which case. Eliot certainly wasn’t being fair to Q. 

“‘M so hungover,” Quentin mumbled against Eliot, lips brushing against his neck. “What did you make me drink?” 

“Just enough gin to get you dancing. Well. Kady came at you with the bourbon. I think that might’ve really done it.” 

_I know a spell for that. For hangovers._ The thought was sort of—absent, floating around in his alcohol-soaked daze. _Poppers seven and… forty-three. For lessening the headache._ Eliot put his palms together, Quentin still lying on top of him, hot and smelling of gin and boy, and he closed his eyes, letting the movements come to him. 

It was silly. Really. There wasn’t a _spell_ for anything. He moved the base of his palm over the fingers of his left hand, completing the action and—there was a ripple in the air around them, a sharp zing of taste and smell, like cloves and cardamom filling the room—and Quentin—wide-eyed, lifting his head and looking up at Eliot just as the ripple faded out. “What was that?” 

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Eliot’s hands were shaking, hairs standing up on the back of his neck, and he felt—dizzy, even lying down, and strange and oddly—energized. A slick, new rush came over him, an abundance of his learning and skills, his efforts and quests, and the way that Quentin figured into it. He took a deep breath. 

“I don’t—this is going to sound really crazy—” Quentin started. 

“Try me,” Eliot said, breathing out, his heart beating wildly. “It’s been a weird few days.” 

“But I felt that—like it—lifted the—my headache. Is almost gone. And like I could stand up without fucking. Falling over.” 

“I think it was… something I remembered. But my hands did the remembering. Not my—mind. Not my conscious mind.” Eliot rubbed at his face, the odd taste of spice still sitting on his tongue. “This doesn’t make—this sounds insane—” 

“Was it _magic_?” Quentin’s eyes were very wide and _very_ sincere. Of course he loved magic. God, of course he did. It was very on brand for Quentin’s breed of nerd. And here was Eliot, about to fucking break down again, _high_ from doing a simple casting, one that every first year knew. Jesus. What was happening? 

“I was half asleep when I thought it. But I thought, ‘I know a spell for hangovers.’ And I moved my hands in this weird, sort of, complicated, way. Like a memory of a memory. Like I couldn’t do it again if I concentrated. But maybe—maybe like, half asleep.” 

“Teach me. If you can remember it. Not now but. Sometime. If you think of anything else.” Quentin was trying _not_ to sound excited (he was failing). “I don’t know—um, write it down or something.” 

Eliot grinned. “You don’t think I’m crazy? Like belong-in-a-mental-institution crazy? That is so… sweet. And it’s just that—that didn’t happen. It couldn’t have. Right?” 

Quentin kept watching him, searching his face. “Yeah. I guess. I felt it, though. And no, I don’t think you’re insane. When I’m with you—it’s like—I have these feelings, like kind of dreamy, like that I remember something, but it’s not quite there.” 

“Hmm. Okay. Well. That’s enough crazy for one morning.” His heart was beating hard. It wasn’t just him, was it? When he was with Quentin, maybe some of it was bleeding into him. He didn’t know how he felt about that. It was easier, he thought, if he could carry it all on his own. 

“Margo said it was something off, or odd. I don’t know the word she used.” Quentin sat up, eyes bright, reaching for his phone (and flailing a bit like he did last time). “Shit. Fucking shit. Margo.” Like he’d just remembered that she was a person who existed. His face fell as the weight of the last part of the night started to hit him. “Julia. I fucked up her birthday. I fucked it all up—Jesus, I’m such a fucking—I can’t do anything right.” 

“Hey, Q, look at me.” He tipped Quentin’s chin so they were eye to eye, covering the hand that held his phone. His heart rate had slowed, the dizzy feeling beginning to dissipate. “Breathe with me. You didn’t ruin anything. Julia had a great time. And she got Margo home safe. She crashed in Margo’s bed. Remember? She checked in with you before you passed out, and you sent her a string of half-coherent texts apologizing way too profusely. And then she apologized for Margo, and you—” 

“I cried,” Quentin moaned. 

“And I told you it was okay.” 

“You meant what you said about not ditching me?” 

Eliot nodded. “I think I did. I’ve ditched a lot of guys. I don’t have a stellar track record when it comes to being…” He waved his hand. “Empathetic.” 

“That’s not what I see.” 

“I don’t see the same Eliot you see,” he said. He brushed an eyelash off of Quentin’s cheek. His lovely, flushed cheek. 

Quentin leaned forward and kissed him, long and slow, as if trying to prove to Eliot that he saw something different, something good. Q pulled away, worrying his pouty lower lip. “Tell me—if you—if this is a game or a—hook-up. I just. I can’t do that.” 

He wasn’t going to address the fact that Quentin had actually used the word ‘hook-up’ in a sentence. Really, it wasn’t 2005. Someone hadn’t given Q the message. And Eliot had just done a—fucking—spell? In front of him. That was like, weirdly intimate. Yeah, no. Quentin needed a reality check. “We’re a little beyond that. I want you. Today. Here. Go to breakfast. Invite Julia and Margo—and then we’ll—” 

“Wait, that sounds like a terrible idea. Julia. Yeah. Margo—” 

Eliot shrugged. “We need to fix this. And I’m hungry.” He brushed through Quentin’s hair, letting his fingers fall through the silk of it. “We should be adults. Or whatever. Best done with access to alcohol, chilaquiles, and waffles.” 

Quentin took a deep breath in and let it out—still sort of glued to Eliot as he got out his phone to text Julia. “Penny checked on me last night,” Quentin said, laughing. 

“Dick roommate?” 

“Dick roommate. Maybe not such a dick.” Quentin flicked his eyes over to Eliot. “Don’t make me invite him to brunch. We’re not there yet.” 

“Noted.” He touched Quentin, trailing his fingers over his skin, so soft and warm. “After brunch, I was going to say—it’s going to be nice out. Finally. We could. Go to the park.” 

“That sounds suspiciously like a date.” 

“You’ve slept in my bed three out of the last four nights. And. You’re taking me on a date tomorrow. Remember?” Quentin flushed bright red, and Eliot grinned. “So whatever. We can do what we want, can’t we? I’m working tonight. And it’s Saturday. Spend the day with me.” 

“Oh. Okay.” Quentin was chewing on his lower lip again, but he looked pleased. Like he’d just been given a basket of puppies. “Where’s breakfast?” 

“Cafe Clover. Josh works there. He always gets me a table. When I want one. I told him last night to keep a spot for us.” Eliot pulled Quentin down for a kiss, nipping at his chewed-on bottom lip, brushing his hands over Quentin’s compact body, the fuzz spread over his chest and down to his navel, the hair on his arms. To the touch, Quentin felt so soft, so pliant and yet so solid, masculine and so fucking _pretty._

“And we’re not going to—talk about—how you just did—” Quentin tried to say between kisses. But Eliot wanted him to shut up. So Eliot kissed him harder, rolling Quentin on to his back and pinning his arms over his head, pressing his left hand to Quentin’s wrist to feel his quickened pulse just there. 

“No. Not now. I need to—shower.” He nuzzled against Quentin’s neck. “You should come with me.” 

“Should I?” 

“Mm. You should.” Eliot rolled out of bed and pulled Quentin to the small tiled shower, just big enough for two people (that had been a requirement when he was conducting his apartment search, not that he’d really had anyone he wanted to stay over that long). He was still holding Quentin’s hand (sickeningly like dating, yeah, and—fuck, it felt really good) when he turned on the water, getting it somewhere between warm and hot and tugging Quentin in with him, who was laughing and batting his ridiculous long hair out of his face. 

He kissed Quentin under the steady streams of water, smiling with each touch of his lips. Q melted into him—like he did in all those images, the ones by the cabin, the place he thought might be just the loveliest of dreams, something so unreal, but it was _him_ , wasn’t it?—hot and eager and so—adoring. Unreal and so. Heady. 

“Here, let me wash your hair,” Eliot said, before he could stop himself. Before he could think, _no, that’s not what you say to a boy after a week of making out and—God—heavy petting_. 

“What?” The corners of Quentin’s eyes crinkled up at the edges, and he chuckled, breaking into a full-on laugh. But he threw his arms around Eliot, pulling him close, water sluicing over both of them. “That’s so—you’re so—like out of a dumb movie—” 

Eliot swallowed hard, a knot in his throat. “If you don’t want—” 

But Quentin kissed him greedily, tongue touching his, the taste of gin and warm water and the coppery-salty hint of Quentin’s skin. He pulled away, panting, heavy. “Honestly. I like being touched. So yeah. I do want.” 

“You like being touched? I really hadn’t guessed,” Eliot said, grinning, turning Quentin to face the wall of the shower with the comically small window. He touched the muscles of Quentin’s back, the dip at the base of his spine, the fine, round curve of his ass. 

“Thought you were going to wash my hair, El,” Quentin murmurs. 

“Hm? I got distracted.” Eliot poured a little of his shampoo—well, it was for curly hair, wasn’t it? But that wouldn’t make a difference. Quentin smelled like _Pantene_. Which was—oddly—hot. But Eliot could stand him smelling like Aveda for a day. That would be—also hot. Because Quentin was ungodly—fucking hot. With his silly floppy long hair that he kept hung over his face or up in a dumb, hot man-bun and his deep-set, _sincere_ , sweet puppy-brown eyes, and really, Eliot could write an ode to his jawline and the dip of his waistline and the hard, muscular body he kept hidden beneath all of his blankety layers. He was glad Quentin would have to struggle back into clothes that actually _fit_ , though he might do something _ridiculous_ , like insist they go back to his place and ‘grab a hoodie’ or his tattered brown coat or one of the sweaters that were a little too loose on his frame. 

Eliot worked his fingers through Quentin’s hair, massaging his scalp, pulling locks of thick, golden-brown hair through his fingers. Quentin whimpered, his body crumpling back against Eliot’s. He flung a hand out to steady himself, trying to grip at the tiled shower wall. “You do like being touched, don’t you?” 

“It’s good. When it’s you,” Quentin said, breathy. It _shouldn’t_ be this good, not with anyone. And it shouldn’t undo him, certainly shouldn’t make him _hard_ that Quentin sighed as Eliot rinsed his hair. But here he was, just completely fucking _bare_ , pulling Quentin into him, closer, his length, throbbing and needy, pressed against Q’s soft, hot skin. 

“Seems like you’re enjoying yourself.” Quentin looked over shoulder and up at Eliot, his expression snarky, eyes crinkled, with wet, clean hair draped over his face. 

“Don’t be a brat. I’m going to condition your hair.” 

“You’re so posh,” Quentin quipped. “I use the two-in-one stuff. I just like—what’s conditioner even for, anyway?" 

“You’re abhorrent,” Eliot sighed. “Just for that, I’m making you use this hair mask. You have to have it on for ten minutes.” 

“Jesus, that’s so—complicated. Just, my hair is clean so—” 

Eliot leaned in and kissed Quentin’s cheek softly. “There’s a lot we can do in ten minutes.” 

Q let out a punched little huff. “Mm. Yeah? I guess then—you should put on the fucking—hair mask.” 

“Lean your head back against my shoulder.” Quentin did as he said, compliant now, like he now knew he was going to get a treat for behaving himself. “Mm, good boy.” 

Quentin’s mouth dropped open a little, his bottom lip wet and pink, and he moaned a little. He liked that, didn’t he? Tricks learned from the outer reaches of those memories? Or? Just Eliot falling into Eliot’s way of reading people, reading boys who liked being touched. Most of got kicked out before a shower. And _none_ of them got the Briogeo Don’t Despair, Repair! Deep Conditioning Mask. But Quentin didn’t use conditioner—was he raised in a barn? Eliot pretty much _was_ raised in a barn, and even he knew better than to pick up anything that said ’two-in-one’ because that kind of advertising was always a goddamn lie. He took a good dollop of the hair mask (God, he loved a good hair mask), kneading it into Quentin’s hair, from the roots to the somehow not-split ends of his lovely, lovely hair. Legitimately, unfairly, stupidly beautiful Quentin. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, Q’s head against his shoulder, and he let the wave wash over him, the images he kept at bay. It was all sharp enough now that he could almost pick out _only_ the good things, like the first time he saw Quentin in that other life, with his blazer and his worried eyebrows and his silly name, the times he’d stupidly attempted to assess Quentin’s interest in him or at least the level of his heterosexuality—impossible to determine, until—until that night which was both terrible and fucking incredible, when Quentin kissed him, emotion-drunk and desperate, more even for Eliot than for Margo (who was so, so incandescently stunning). He’d crawled in Eliot’s lap, held him and kissed him and touched him—his lips, his hands. Quentin opening for him, taking him and— 

“You have to wait for it to soak in,” Eliot whispered. 

“Whatever will we do?” Quentin brought his hand to his own hardening cock, but Eliot batted it away, which made Quentin whine. And that was exactly the point here. Stretch it out. They didn’t have anywhere to be. Not yet. 

“Trust me.” He’d intended it to come out as a question, but it didn’t, and Quentin just nodded, eyes closed. Compliant. He wasn’t sure if he deserved it, here or—wherever the other Quentin Coldwater had been. He probably didn’t. Eliot reached for the small container of coconut oil he kept in his shower for his hair—and, well. Reasons. He opened it, and Quentin opened his eyes a little at the sound. “I want to touch you. Inside Is that okay?” 

“Mm hm.” Quentin nodded a little, shivering a tiny bit, already blissed out with one of Eliot’s arms slung around his waist, holding him in place. 

Eliot took a bit of the oil, rubbing it between his fingers until it was warm and liquid. He trailed his fingers over the swell of Quentin’s ass and dipped his fingers between those (bitable) cheeks, touching the soft, yielding place between. A thrill ran up Eliot’s spine as Quentin gasped and let out an aching sound, pushing back against him as his finger circled there, dipping in ever so slightly, then retreating, pushing in again. “You like that, don’t you?” 

“Y-yeah,” Quentin breathed. 

“You’ve been thinking about me?” 

“I can’t—oh—can’t get you out of my—head—” Quentin was moving his hand to touch himself again. 

“No. Not yet,” Eliot murmured. Quentin dropped his hand. “Good.” 

“What have you been thinking about?” 

“Your hands and—your mouth—and I really—want you to—fuck me. I really, really—” 

“Yeah?” Eliot dipped a slicked finger inside of him, just a little, drinking in the sound Quentin made, the ragged, broken gasp. “I want to watch you come while you’re thinking about exactly that. If you think you can take it. When I decide to—let you have it.” 

“You’re needlessly—cruel—” But Quentin brought his hand to his cock, stroking himself fast and artless, chasing release as Eliot sunk a second wet finger inside of him, just to the first knuckle. Barely anything. “More—I— _oh fuck_ —” 

Eliot pressed in just a little farther, moving his body closer to Quentin, grasping him tight, pressing his cock, taut and hot and throbbing with need against Quentin’s ass as he lazily fucked into him with his fingers, just slightly deeper each time, as Quentin gasped and groaned with the silky remnants of the hair mask dripping down over his shoulders, water sluicing over them, cleaning off the scents of alcohol and sweat and smoke. It was, admittedly, a little _domestic_ for Eliot, but maybe in a good way. Quentin let out a choked, wild sound, loud enough to impress the neighbors, he thought absently, smiling as Quentin pushed down on his fingers, bucking and arching his back, thrusting into his hand as he came against the wall of the shower. “Eliot—oh my God—Eliot—” 

And Eliot, well, Jesus fucking Christ, he was hard and leaking. He plunged his fingers into the oil (he’d needed a new jar anyway), warming it and slicking it over his cock even as Quentin’s body was still jerking and pushing back against him. It was quick, so fucking quick, a few strokes making him making that Quentin-shaped coil of desire grow tighter and tighter inside of him—heat building in him as Quentin said his name again, pressing back against him with intent now, with heat and closeness, reaching his hand up and back to thread through Eliot’s curls—and he was trembling with it, with delicious want and the pulse of impending release, biting down on Quentin’s shoulder as he came, crying out, long and loud and deep, exploding over the small of his back, ropes of come swirling down the slope of his ass, mixed with the hot water. “Oh, fuck, Q—” 

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah.” 

He let Eliot wash away the hair mask ( _a fucking hair mask, what was Eliot becoming?_ ). So gorgeous and so good. God, he was beautiful. And his hair was so fucking soft, and Eliot didn’t even say anything when he insisted on wrapping it in one of his towels after they dried off and got dressed (even though that was clearly very dehydrating for any brand of hair, curly or no.) He handed Quentin his clothes and they chatted about Quentin’s books, the ones he was writing about, and what either of them could possibly say to make Margo _not_ kill the both of them. It was—like sinking into something comfortable. A plush, old chair or a feather bed. Real and lovely and warm. And it hadn’t been since Mike that _anyone_ had been at his apartment this much, let alone slept over. 

“Here,” Eliot said, handing Quentin his sandalwood comb after Q had towel-dried his hair and slipped on the ( _Thank you, Margo_ ) really nice jeans. 

“Hm, thanks. This is nice. My combs are plastic.” 

“God. You should be using a brush.” 

“What? You have a comb.” 

“My hair is short. And I wet comb it with this. After co-washing.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Eliot started laughing. He grabbed the comb from Quentin, positioning him in front of the mirror and carefully parting his hair before brushing it as best he could with the rather inappropriate tools he had at his disposal. ( _Note to self: get brush for Quentin._ ) 

“Am I acceptable now, or are you going to blow-dry my hair? Maybe give me a wave?” 

He patted Quentin’s cheek. “We’ll be late if I dry it. It would take ages. I assume you have no idea about that either.” 

Quentin shrugged, turning around and drawing Eliot down for a kiss, shamelessly open-mouthed and smiling; Eliot could _feel_ him smiling. 

It felt like—this was so cheesy—God, did Eliot hate cheesy shit, shit like fucking _Todd_ would say about whatever dumb girl he’d talked into dating him—but it was like he’d found this big missing piece of him, a piece he’d lost. That he’d—pushed away, even. There were worse not-memories after that, things that rivaled the worst of his already—let’s be honest—fucking massive trauma ( _thanks, Dad_ ). He couldn’t—he couldn’t even. Think them. The things that happened to him. To Quentin. But he could feel, and Quentin could feel, and maybe that’s all they needed to do in these stolen, quiet moments before—Eliot didn’t know what—but he knew that it wouldn’t be _easy_. 

*** 

Cafe Clover was crowded. It always was. Every decent place to eat in Midtown was always crowded on Saturday mornings, but there was a table waiting. And Quentin still looked—honestly—adorable in his little Julia’s birthday outfit with his hair all soft and conditioned and still a little damp. Eliot tucked a piece of it behind his ear as they were led to the table because it was Saturday morning, and he wanted to, and they weren’t hungover (and he wasn’t going to think about _how that happened_ right now, was he?), and they were about to have mimosas and lavender-infused waffles and maybe eggs Benedict with salmon or crab or something decadent and everyone would be _so delighted_ because alcohol and food worked well to solve most things, or at least _start_ solving them. Maybe that was a little optimistic where Margo was concerned, but Quentin _smiled_ when they sat down, and it was just the two of them, sitting by the window and watching people walk their weird dogs, their feet touching under the table. (Teenage Eliot would have died and gone to heaven at this vision, and early-twenties Eliot would have sneered and rolled his eyes. Honestly, he had to side with Teenage Eliot today. Because he was right about some things.) Not even Todd texting him every five seconds was going to make him lose his shit. 

“The waffles are great and—hm, and the poached eggs are amazing—” 

“I think I’m going to get the, um, avocado toast like a truly entitled Millennial,” Quentin said, sipping water and crunching his ice, which was strangely cute and not at all annoying. 

“Mm, if you must,” Eliot said. “Though I don’t think one should ever pass up an opportunity to eat lavender-infused waffles.” 

“Definitely not eating quinoa pancakes.” 

“I’d divorce you immediately if you did.” 

Quentin blushed bright red at that and hid his head in the menu, which was sort of the point. Eliot smiled and tried to signal someone to bring him alcohol because, while his morning had been the best he’d had in—as long as he could remember, it was also really disturbing that he might have performed some kind of _magic,_ and he wanted to forget it immediately. And the best way to do that was to sacrifice a few brain cells to the greater good. 

Josh barreled over to them the moment he saw Eliot’s hand wave. He was, of course, was _somehow_ awake and working, even after being thoroughly drunk _and_ high on at least two different mind-altering substances of his own creation. “ _Mis amigos!_ So good to see you after all this time. Could I interest you in our signature brunch cocktail? A cherry infused vodka with champagne and—” 

“Vile. I’d like a Bloody Mary. Extra spicy.” 

“A mimosa. Do you—have mimosas?” Quentin gave Josh a lopsided grin and tucked his hair behind his ear. He was adorable. Eliot wanted to put him in his vest pocket and carry him around forever—which was, okay— maybe not a thought to think after like, less than a week? Eliot decided he’d round it up to a week since this particular week hadn’t exactly been steeped in reality, and all things Quentin definitely _weren’t,_ whether or not Quentin knew that fully. Quentin wasn’t exactly a himbo (like, for example, half of the guys Eliot had “dated,” dated being a loose term), but he sort of lived in his Hobbit-filled head, and so all of this probably seemed perfectly normal to him, if he thought about it in a certain way. And Eliot was pretty sure that Quentin did think about it in that certain way: _Of course, this is normal. I was always expecting someone to do magic and watch me jack off in the shower in the space of approximately twenty-five minutes_. 

“Make that an extra strong Bloody Mary,” Eliot added. “Two shots of vodka.” 

“Coming right up, sirs,” Josh said. “Know what you’d like to order? I can get it in ahead of the rush.” 

“We should wait—” 

“Avocado toast,” Quentin said happily. 

“Okay. Well looks like we’re—oh, boy—here they come. And Bambi’s wearing sunglasses and a big hat. This should be—Josh, get me the poached eggs. And quick on the drinks. These ladies will need to be taken care of quickly as well.” 

“Right away, captain.” He saluted Eliot, and Eliot rolled his eyes. Really, Josh was as good natured a person as he’d ever met in his life. So he put up with a lot where Josh was concerned. And sure, maybe he was Eliot’s only _real_ friend when it came down to it, but he was working on it. He felt it important for one of those annoyingly intangible reasons, like the one that had drawn him to Quentin. (Though he’d already be drawn to Q’s sweet little—kind of slutty—dork act that wasn’t an act regardless of whatever. He needed vodka. Champagne wasn’t going to cut it.) 

Josh managed to deliver their drinks just as Julia and Margo arrived, Margo hesitating for a moment and sitting down next to Quentin. Julia sat next to Eliot, tentative, primly putting her purse in her lap. “Hi guys. You have a… good night?” 

“Yeah,” Quentin said, sort of clueless and shameless, drinking his mimosa and getting a bit of orange pulp on his lip. Eliot had to strongly resist the urge to brush it away with his thumb, just to touch Quentin’s lip. But that would be… socially unacceptable. And he definitely shouldn’t do it. “I’m sorry about your birthday, Jules. I really am—” 

“Really, my birthday was awesome. You danced with me. And Margo sang to me. So that made the whole thing—like really amazing. Nights like that don’t end without like, a tiny bit of drama.” 

Eliot thought he might like Julia. 

Margo didn’t take her sunglasses off or her big floppy hat. She seemed to crouch even further into herself, even after she ordered a Bloody Mary—extra spicy, extra strong (just like Eliot). “And a fucking coffee. With like—do you even fucking have packets of sugar, or does this place take itself too seriously to have sugar?” 

“We have sugar packets,” Josh said, unflappable. “Right away.” 

Margo turned her attention to Eliot and Quentin. Eliot could sense her glare, even through the reflective surface of her sunglasses. “How come you two dicks look so good?” 

“Well—” Quentin started. 

“Lots of Gatorade. And we ate cereal. Before bed.” 

“Hair mask,” Quentin added. He looked over at Eliot, eyes lighting up. And Eliot _blushed_. His cheeks were hot and pink, and Eliot didn’t _blush._

“Um,” Julia said, looking between Quentin and Eliot like she was watching a cat on a leash or in a stroller—something totally unexpected, strangely intimate, and completely inappropriate. “That’s—great, Q. It does sound like a good night. And morning.” Julia darted her eyes over to Margo, who didn’t react. 

Quentin laughed because he was a giant dork “They have avocado toast. I’ve never had it. But I like avocados and I like toast. So.” 

Eliot started laughing and clasped a hand over his mouth, trying to stop. He took a large sip of his Bloody Mary and tried to hold it down, but he started laughing again when Josh came by and took Margo and Julia’s food orders, delicately putting down their drinks and Margo’s coffee, with the sugars lined up right in front of her steaming cup. Julia kept looking between Quentin and Eliot, brows knitted, clearly also very hungover—possibly still high—but still trying to parse what was happening. 

“And Eliot says the poached eggs are really good. So good call on that, Julia. And the waffles are infused with, um—” 

“Lavender,” Eliot supplied. 

Quentin started laughing again, and Eliot kicked him under the table. 

“Ow. Don’t kick me.” 

Eliot’s mouth quirked into an even bigger smile—he really couldn’t help it. Q was a little _giddy_ from— _everything_ , he guessed. And he couldn’t really get a grip on himself. And he was so, so cute. 

Margo groaned and took her sunglasses off, slamming them on the table. “So. What the fuck?” 

“What the fuck, what?” Quentin asked, his tone shifting. “Let’s get this on the, uh, proverbial table. Shall we? Margo, I’m sorry I lied to you. I went home with Eliot after we met at the coffee shop—” 

“You what—” Margo started. 

“And Julia, I’m sorry for—lying to you by omission.” 

“Uh—it’s okay, Q. I really don’t have—a stake in this fight.” 

“It’s not a fight,” Quentin said. “It shouldn’t be. Because we’re all like. Consenting adults. Who shouldn’t be judged for who they’re.” He shrugged. “Fucking. Or whatever.” 

Eliot took another sip of his Bloody Mary. That was—well, that was a thing to say, he guessed. 

Margo pushed on, chasing her train of thought. “After the coffee shop? The coffee shop? The minute after he laid eyes on you—” 

“Yeah that’s a difference of like. One day. Compared to what you think. Which—okay, I don’t really know what you think, Margo. What do you think happened?” Quentin finished the rest of his mimosa, more pulp on his lip. 

Eliot wanted to sink into his chair, but he was nearly six foot three, and he couldn’t sink into anything when he needed to. Margo didn’t say anything, lips pursed together. Because—because, he realized, Margo had no idea what was happening. Not that Eliot did, either, not really. 

“What? What—Margo?” Quentin sputtered. “Do you think Eliot seduced me and is planning to—leave me in a gutter somewhere? We went back to his place that night—and we—” 

“You really don’t need to include details. A broad overview is plenty, Quentin,” Eliot said, attempting a ‘please calm down’ tone without coming off as a total dick. 

“We kissed. That’s all. And talked. A long time.” 

Eliot was very red now. He really thought he was immune to embarrassment, but. He clearly wasn’t. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something to say. But Quentin was—relentlessly honest. And yeah. That’s what had happened. There wasn’t any denying it. 

“Oh my God. Gross.” Margo’s burger arrived, and she ate a few of the fries all at once and downed about half of her Bloody Mary. She emptied a sugar packet into her coffee and stirred it angrily. 

“And we’ve seen each other. A time or two. Since then,” Quentin added. Of course. 

“So he was the one texting you?” Margo asked, incredulous. “He made you _dinner_?” 

“Yeah. It was good,” Quentin said. “He’s good at cooking. Very fancy.” 

Julia didn’t say anything. She ate her eggs and gnawed at her biscuit and ordered herself a second mimosa. 

“And Q and I are going out tomorrow,” Eliot felt compelled to say, and then he immediately cringed at himself. 

“You’re calling him ‘Q’ now, too?” Margo spat. “And where are you going?” 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Quentin said. He flicked his eyes over at Margo, a little more nervous now. Less—over the top. Q swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

Eliot’s eggs were getting cold. He poked at them and then opted for eating his toast and downing the rest of his Bloody Mary. 

“So—let me get this straight—” Margo started. 

“Not so straight,” Quentin said, through a bite of avocado and bread. 

Okay, maybe Quentin wasn’t done being _completely goddamn ridiculous. Jesus Christ._ Eliot tried to sink further down in his chair. But there wasn’t anywhere else to go.<

To her credit, Julia laughed. Margo just made a low sound of exasperation, something like a growl. It made Q back away from her toward the window, which Eliot thought was probably a good call. As he saw Josh walk by, he waved to him. “Hoberman, more drinks for all.” 

The fucker saluted him again, which was—again, embarrassing. And also sweet. Josh wasn’t tragically embarrassing—like fucking Todd—he was just so _Josh_. He gave precisely zero fucks about what anyone thought of him, beyond well—he guessed Josh wanted people to like him. But more than that, Josh just wanted to actively _love_ other people. That’s what had made Eliot uncomfortable at first about Josh, he guessed. But he had a way of weaseling his way into people’s lives, and suddenly, he found himself with this unfailingly loyal friend who was both intentionally and unintentionally hilarious. (And he maybe had a mild case of sexually transmitted lycanthropy? Eliot wasn’t really sure, but he might be after a second, very strong drink.) 

They all ate quietly, each of them kind of looking around nervously, until Quentin drank a sip of his fresh mimosa and had orange pulp on his upper lip again and—Eliot was sure they wouldn’t notice if—he reached over and brushed his thumb against Quentin’s lip and he smiled, so warm. It felt like a reward. Eliot always liked rewards. And Quentin started laughing again because apparently he had no control over his emotional responses, and his reaction to Eliot and his two best friends at a very awkward brunch had tipped from uncomfortable into totally bizarre—and Quentin was acting dopey, like he was high. And if this is how he got after sex, Eliot would really have to keep him inside for a few days afterwards. 

Margo groaned again, slamming her hand down on the table. “You two are being _revolting_. I’m going to lose my goddamn lunch. You—what—met a few days ago and suddenly you’re dating?” 

Q went looked down and shrugged. “We’re not _not_ dating.” He paused, looking at Eliot. “El?” 

“That’s the state of things,” Eliot said, looking over at Q, who smiled. He felt a weight lift, freer than he’d been in—well maybe since that first week in New York all those years ago, when everything felt full of possibilities. He took a forkful of egg. “We’re going to the park.” 

“Excuse me? The fucking park? El, are you serious?” Margo caught him with her shrewd gaze. “This is all very reminiscent of—” 

“Margo, stop. It’s not like that.” 

“You jump into things before you even—fucking—look at them, Eliot. Do you know Quentin? At all?” 

“Isn’t that what you do when you’re, like, dating someone?” Quentin grumbled. 

“Generally, that does seem to be the case,” Julia said, evenly. “And it sounds like they’re excited—and it’s sweet, honestly—” 

“Julia, excuse me. Were you here for the dramatic dissolution of either of their previous relationships? I was. I saw what Eliot’s ex _did_ to him then and what he very _possibly_ did to him just a fucking week ago—” 

“We don’t know if that—I don’t know who—” Eliot started. 

“Yeah, okay. Let’s just say that you get yourself into shitty fucking situations like the ball sack you are.” She took a deep breath in. She wasn’t done. “And, Julia—were you here when Alice broke up with Quentin?” 

“It was mutual,” Quentin mumbled. 

Julia kept her face—serene. Serene was a good word for her. Calm, even. Cool water to Margo’s fire. “No, I wasn’t here.” 

“He was two steps away from checking himself in to the hospital, and I got to drag the pieces of him back together. And Eliot, you haven’t told Quentin have you—why we’re not friends—” 

“I thought we were. Again.” He didn’t want his voice to sound so—raw. But there it was. 

“Your probation period is officially fucking over. My head is pounding. My only real friend in graduate school lied to me about a stupid fucking guy, and I’m planning to go vomit up this goddamn twenty dollar burger—” 

Eliot sighed and closed his eyes. If he could just make his mind blank for—a second. Poppers— _what the fuck even were poppers?_ —seven and forty-three. 

“What are you doing with your hands?” Julia asked, suddenly curious. But Eliot had moved through the actions so quickly that no one else at the table had time to register. There was a low hum in the air around them, and that scent again, like pumpkin pie spice, homey and comforting. He thought—maybe felt—he’d accomplished it again. For Julia and Margo. Maybe. One thing he could do. A simple thing. Proof that—there was something going on that was bigger than a relationship developing in the space of a few days. And really, it wasn’t possible that he’d done it again, was it? The air seemed to hum in his ears, and his hair stood on end. Maybe he had. 

Margo took off her hat, shoving it at Quentin, her eyes wide. “Well this day just keeps getting more and more fucking fucked right the fuck up. What the _fuck_ was that?” 

Eliot shrugged. He hadn’t planned to do this. “Don’t really know. Something for hangovers.” 

“It’s a _spell_ ,” Quentin whispered, unfortunately not very quietly. But it was New York, and if someone hadn’t already attempted wandless magic in Cafe Clover, they probably would by tomorrow for some Harry Potter furry-cosplay-sex-convention or whatever. 

“That’s not—that’s not—real.” Margo was looking between them, looking about a thousand times healthier than she did a minute ago. It had even de-puffed the bags around her eyes. “Because magic isn’t _real_ ” 

Quentin laughed again, giddy. Just fucking giddy. “Yeah, well. That’s why we’re not hungover. And that’s why, fuck. I think that’s why a lot of things. I’m not very eloquent after mimosa number two—” 

“Or ever,” Margo says, but without malice this time. 

“But you said something was weird. Off or whatever you said. And it’s this. It’s not bad. It’s— _amazing_.” 

_Oh, Q_. Eliot winced. He didn’t want to dig too hard into a lot of those not-memories, because some of it had been— _really, really bad_. “I’m not getting my email from Hogwards or anything—” 

“Hogwarts,” Margo and Quentin corrected, in tandem.<

“And it’s a fucking letter. Delivered by a goddamn owl, Eliot,” Margo huffed. “Jesus Christ, you didn’t even read _those_ books.” 

Eliot rolled his eyes. “You guys are both nerds.” 

Margo giggled a little bit, and then laughed—really laughed. “You’re telling me that you’re _dating_ Eliot because he can do a second rate like, hangover incantation or whatever.” 

“It’s movements. With his hands,” Q supplied. “And I like him because he’s Eliot. Not because of—the whole. Magic. Thing.” 

“Well, the incantation thing or whatever isn’t real,” Margo said. “Because magic isn’t real. We all spent a long time wanting it to be real—” Her voice cracked a little. “But it’s not. Okay?” 

“So you didn’t feel your hangover go away?” Quentin asked, soft. Margo just scowled. “What about you, Jules?” 

Julia looked between Quentin and Eliot. She was visibly more alert, the shadows beneath her eyes gone. She bit her lip, thinking, thinking. Puzzling it out. “I felt it. Leaving me.” She paused again. “But it doesn’t feel inherently _possible_ , not when we know magic is—well, it’s just in stories, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, well, what if that’s not right?” Quentin asked, dreamy-eyed. Excited. “What if everything we thought we knew about the world is just—a little off?” 

Julia seemed to be considering this. “We can’t rule it out, can we?” 

Margo sighed theatrically, picking at her garlic fries. Most of her drink was gone now. “What if it’s not fucking magic? What if we all just needed a drink? And we’re all feeling better now. Right?” 

“That theory can’t be discounted, either,” Julia replied. 

Eliot sighed. This was the one card he had to play, the only thing that could explain the truth of him and Quentin. Or him and Margo. It was off-brand for Eliot to own the Big Things about himself, but there was so much, a lifetime’s worth— _more than that, even_ —and it was bursting through him now, after his second casting, after the four of them sitting together. It was surging inside of him, cresting. So much that he needed to release it, needed to build up and take control of that adult part of himself, the one that also existed in those images, the one in charge of a house and home, the one who had learned you needed to speak things at the time they needed to be said. The one who did magic. 

“The thing is—” Eliot started. The restaurant was fucking loud now, and no one would hear him, would they? It was going to come out, weather the quickly diminishing normal parts of Normal Eliot liked it or not. Like now-ish. If he had any chance of—fixing anything. “The thing is—I think you have it, too.” 

"You? Who is ‘you’ in this disastrously ludicrous scenario, Dumbledore?” Margo crossed her arms. 

“You, Margo. And Quentin. And Julia. Josh, actually. And I think some of the people I work with and um. Penny?” 

“Penny? Jesus, he’s insufferable enough as it is. And _me_?” Quentin added that last phrase with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old at a trampoline park birthday party. 

“Yeah, you. I have these memories. Images. I mentioned them—to you, Margo. And you, Q.” They both nodded. Julia was watching them all, intense and curious. “They’re all of these different places and times, where we were friends—or, well. We all knew each other. And we all went through a bunch of dangerous shit. And we had—we had magic.” Eliot sighed. “God, that sounds so ridiculous. But I remember it was—I was—old. I think. Those parts are fuzzier than the others. But I got here because, I think, I couldn’t be there anymore. I needed to be here. Or something.” 

“All due respect—sort of,” Margo started, “you sound like a fucking lunatic, Eliot. And this is your justification for—for—fucking Quentin—like he was your former—what?—boyfriend? That doesn’t make a shit-lick of any goddamn sense—” 

Eliot leaned back, sighing, putting his hand to his forehead and dragging it down over his face. “Yeah. No, it doesn’t. You’re right.” 

“It seems like you really ought to know if you invented this urban fantasy bullshit or created it from some drug-addled Harry Potter-induced delusion—” 

He opened his eyes briefly to see that Margo was shaking. He wanted to—something. He didn’t know. He rubbed his hands together, moving his palms _just so_ fingers pressed to his thumbs, like an old, remembered habit. Like something he used to do in high school so he wouldn’t fall asleep in American History. But—but—when he lifted his fingers in a small arc, the sugar packets in front of Margo’s coffee lifted ever so slightly. Julia gasped, sitting back in her chair, eyes intent. Eliot, heart beating wildly, lifted his fingers just a little bit more, held in the tight position that came so naturally to him. One of the half empty packets turned a bit and emptied the rest of the sugar onto the table. He held the packets aloft, high enough so that Margo could see them—eyes growing wide, mouthing _’What the ever-loving goddamn fuck’_ —and he dropped them quickly, before any of the hipster patrons turned their heads to see Eliot doing—telekinesis—or whatever the shit he was doing. He sat back in his chair, ears buzzing again, heart beating rapidly, disorganized, tasting it—sharp, like lime—feeling the magic, heavy, hanging in the air around them before it slowly began to fade. 

“Oh my God, Eliot,” Quentin whispered, beaming at Eliot like he’d hung the moon. “Holy shit. That was incredible. _Amazing_. You did that. You _did_ that.” 

Eliot was—he didn’t know. There were two distinct parts of him—the one that knew that this wasn’t possible, the other who had lived it, who knew that magic was as real to him as breathing. 

“Holy _fucking_ motherfuck. You actually fucking did that—or shit. I didn’t take any of Josh’s pills, did I?” Margo’s eyes had gone wide. She hesitantly touched the empty sugar packet, the one that had spilled. 

“No, you didn’t,” Julia said quietly. She looked at Eliot, questioning. She was… strong. _Powerful._ That was the word that came to mind when he looked at Quentin’s old friend. Dogged and brutally curious and methodical, so different than Q’s own brand of brilliantly disorganized intelligence or Margo’s razor-sharp, cutting cynicism. 

“Well, fuck,” Margo said. She sipped at her drink, slower this time. “I’ll give it to ya. I was all set to come here and tell you to fuck off. And you come at me with _this._ Way to weasel out of that one, El. You’ve really outdone yourself.” 

Eliot sighed. Really, he hadn’t done anything wrong to begin with. Well, apart from everything a year ago, which unfortunately did include Margo. But with Quentin. They were adults. And so what if he’d planned to take him to the bar that first day and give him a hand job worth remembering? He wouldn't argue the point. Not with Margo. Not after—everything. 

Julia looked at him, pointedly. “So you say you have memories of this other time? Or place?” 

He grimaced. The wound on his head hurt less than it had a week ago, but it still throbbed dully, especially after—he guessed—expending himself, accessing something so deep and hidden. “Yeah. Kind of. They come in flashes. The first was—something I can’t explain. A dream, sort of. The night I, well, I died I think.” He looked up, sheepishly. Like dying and coming back to life was sort of… awkward. Troublesome. “After my manager got me back home, she put me to bed and I dreamed of—another time, place. It was… vague.” 

Quentin reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing it. He squeezed Quentin’s fingers back because he was warm and solid and real. In this world. 

“And then?” Margo signaled for another drink. 

“It happened again—when—after I met Quentin.” Eliot pursed his lips. There was more to it than that, but they didn’t need to know that he’d clung to Quentin like his life depended on it, like he needed him to breathe, pulled him close and refused to let go. “It was a lot. All at once. If I let it all in, all at once, it’s too much. There’s so much. And we were all—we all got hurt. A lot. I wish I could—tell you all of it—but it’s all in pieces.” 

“Well, that’s a huge fucking bummer,” Margo said. “‘Oh, Margo, we have magic so you have to be nice, but it’s dangerous and shitty, so I can’t tell you about it.’ The actual fuck.” 

“I mean, it’s just—so—extraordinary,” Quentin said, breathy. _Oh, Quentin._

“Yeah,” Julia said, tentative. “It is. But—none of the rest of us has ever _done_ magic.” 

Margo shrugged. “Search me. Sure as fuck tried when I was twelve and wanted to be an ambassador to the Fillorian Outer Islands.” 

Quentin shook his head, smiling. “Yeah, pretty much same.” 

“So is it an Eliot thing or—something that we can access?” Julia asked, reasonable, measured. And curious, so curious. 

“Or something you want to access,” Eliot muttered. “I don’t know if I do. Or if we should. There is some terribly fucked up shit I really wish I didn’t have any _access_ to.” 

“Quick question before you get any more melodramatic,” Margo said, pursing her lips, catching Eliot’s eye. “Is Fillory real? Because you had this whole thing you said to me about being a king and saving your life and your whole Fillorian fashion show thing—” 

Julia squeaked. “Oh my God. Is that what you’re doing for your project?” 

“Irrelevant, but yes,” Eliot said, sighing. He wasn’t sure if his hangover was coming back or if he just couldn’t take all of these magic-loving dorks. 

“And Fillory?” Margo asked. Again. Fuck. 

“Yeah. Signs point to yes. But fairly sure there’s no access from this world. I’m not sure how I know that. That part of my memory—the how this all happened—is very well-blocked, by magic, I think. I have a little image of it here and there. And I really can’t get started on Fillory now without having a panic attack so let’s please—I don’t know. Finish brunch and table this for later?” 

“That bad, huh?” Margo asked, softer this time. 

Eliot smiled. “Charming. But overrated, I think. Too much whimsy for me.” Eliot raised a hand before these three gigantic nerds spontaneously combusted. “And like I said, I can’t handle talking about it all at once. Really, I’ve done as much as I can do. I promise—more later. But it’s worth… being careful. All three of you have been—damaged—by magic. In these other memories, if they’re to be believed. And I won’t dredge it up over avocado toast and Bloody Marys. Another time, okay?” 

And that was possibly as much as adult Eliot had ever said about his emotions in one sitting. This was a reason he drank. And today, it was a reason he was going to continue drinking. Just enough to fucking cope. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what that stupid old fucker had thought would happen to the Eliot that was already here, who lived in this world—away from all of the magic, and all of the _joy_ , and that empty pit of loss. He’d inherited all of it in the course of one night, and he was only twenty-six for fuck’s sake. And he couldn’t really begin to unpack what all of that meant or even who he really was in this scenario. And more complicated—who Quentin was and what he deserved to know. 

There was a stunned sort of pause; the clinking of silverware against melamine plates. None of them had this exact vision of what this brunch meeting-cum-apology might look like, but it wasn’t _this_. 

Quentin looked over at Margo again, sighing, the fight drained out of him. “Margo. I sorry I lied. I just knew—you’d be angry at Eliot. And, like, kind of overprotective—” 

“I just like saddling myself with the neediest goddamn bitches who ever lived, apparently,” she said. Her face softened a little, and she turned to her friend. “Quentin, you nearly lost your marbles when you and Quinn broke it off. I won’t apologize for being protective because I have nothing to apologize for. I might not be the gooiest person around when it comes to discussing your feelings, but I didn’t want you to get dropped like a hot potato. And Eliot does some dropping—just from what I’ve heard from, like, half of of the guys in the fashion program. And like a quarter of the guys in my MBA program.” 

Eliot winced. “That’s not a great sample pool.” 

“I hear things,” she said. “And I wanted to—Jesus Christ—have you in my. Life again, El. Moving in on my best friend the second you met him—” 

Quentin leaned on Margo. “Margo, I didn’t know I was your best friend.” 

“Lack of other options, Coldwater. Don’t read too much into it.” She swatted at him, but he pulled her into a tight hug and didn’t let go until she actually managed to hit him. “Anyway, _fuck_ , you guys, stop making me feel things. I’m still pissed off at both of you, for the record. But, fine. Jesus. You’re adults, or a good approximation thereof.” 

“Thanks, Margo,” Quentin said. “I think.” 

“He’ll definitely fulfill your tall, smooth Daddy fantasy, Q. And he’ll fuck the Alice right out of you,” Margo added. “So, congratulations on that front.” Quentin sputtered and turned a very appealing shade of pink. 

“And he does magic,” Julia stage-whispered to Quentin. “That’s very on brand for you.” 

“Okay so—moving along—” Eliot said, clapping his hands together and trying to herd all of them into a different line of conversation that didn’t include magic. Or his dick, which was honestly a fascinating topic—but maybe not at brunch? Not that he hadn’t talked about his dick at brunch, but anyway, maybe not best at this one. There was always next time. And Quentin’s Daddy fantasy? He was going to pocket that one. Best to sort that out at a different time. 

Eliot filled the spaces in their halting chatter after that, tiptoeing around speaking the things half-buried inside of him. The things he didn’t say; couldn’t say. That Quentin was at the heart of this awakening, that he’d managed to push Q away and love him and lose him again and again, a pain that reached across universes, across time. He could barely touch Quentin without feeling the exquisite pain of that history—all the grief and frustration and adoration and hope; the weight of a lifetime. 

***  
When they left the restaurant, Quentin and Eliot watched Julia and Margo walk back towards her apartment to—Eliot didn’t know—maybe make plans for world domination. Just a guess. He knew they were talking about him. Him and Quentin. And that was—it was what it was. Eliot had done the thing. The honesty thing that had always been something of a difficulty for him. It seemed to come easier with the myriad truths growing inside of him. He had little to no control over them, and so, reluctantly, he had started to believe them and release them, one at a time—including— 

“You did magic at brunch,” Quentin whispered, reaching up and touching Eliot’s hair, running his strong fingers through his curls. He didn’t let people just _touch_ his hair casually—there was a whole aesthetic to maintain, and he didn’t let boys go around fucking it up. But this was nice. It was Quentin, and his touch was sweet and sure and sent thrills through his body. He drew Quentin into an embrace, kissing him soft and slow, on the busy street in front of the restaurant, making Quentin whimper softly against him. The not-memories hung heavy over them, more like a blanket now, warm and encompassing. 

As they began to walk toward one of the tiny, tucked away parks near his apartment, he held an arm around Quentin, not clinging this time, not exactly, but pulling him in and keeping him, close to his body, to his person. Holding on to him as they walk felt like an anchor—or a balance, something correcting his position, making him finally whole. Being with Quentin was terrifying as well as deeply comforting. In the not-memories that were slowly getting sharper, he knew there was always an edge of fear in all the ways he’d loved Quentin. And he had loved him, been in love with him. 

_The hospital room had been horrible, too cold and too bright, the fluorescent lights always flickering. He’d slipped in and out of consciousness, Margo holding his hand when he woke. He couldn’t speak for a long time, weeks maybe, and he’d just—watched Margo’s face before he fell into deep sleep again. They’d eventually moved him back to the infirmary at Brakebills, but that hadn’t been better. And when, finally, he woke, he asked Margo where Q was, why he hadn’t come, if he’d been sleeping and missed him somehow. ‘El,’ she had said, clutching his hand, ‘I’ve got some bad news.’ He’d sobbed for a long time after that, breaking his stitches and pissing Dr. Sunderland off beyond measure. And it had come back to haunt him, hadn’t it? Years later. He lost Quentin again and again, an infinite loop of grieving. In every timeline, in every universe, Eliot fucking hated hospitals._

He couldn’t exactly tell Margo and Quentin all of that. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

He and Q talked a little while they walked, Quentin lamenting that he didn’t have his ratty messenger bag with him because it contained all of his books, and they could look at the Fillory stuff again for Eliot’s project (gently shying away from mentioning actual Fillory or actual magic). 

“This is one of my favorite spots in the city,” Eliot said, pointing to a bench in the tiny, nameless park a block away from his apartment. There was a little water feature; you couldn’t even call it a fountain, not really. It was surrounded by peach trees and redbuds, which were just all just starting to show the first signs of pale pink and deep purple flowers. 

“Let’s stay here for a while,” Quentin said, pulling Eliot down on the bench with him and nearly climbing in his lap, kissing him, open and tender, eyes closed, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Hm, yeah. I’ve got nowhere to be—until my fucking—team meeting,” he mumbled between kisses. “For work. And you’ll take me out tomorrow, huh?” He tangled his fingers in Quentin’s (soft, so soft) hair, tilting his head back and kissing his neck, and Q whined a little. (It had been a lifetime, hadn’t it, since someone wanted him like this.) They were in public, but tucked away, the fountain-not-fountain obscuring some of the noise from the street. A small paradise, a Garden of Eden. 

“Yeah. Mm. I have to think on that,” Quentin said, kneading his strong fingers into Eliot’s neck, his shoulders, making him groan. “But yes. A date. It won’t be that impressive. Because it’s me.” 

“Already impressed, Q. I don’t care what we do.” 

Q kissed him happily again, reveling in it, lingering—bold and eager and soft and lovely. Quentin eventually slid down, putting his head in Eliot’s lap and watching the small patch of sky above the park as Eliot stroked his hair. 

“I can tell you some of the good things, I think,” Eliot said, watching Q’s long locks fall through his fingers. 

“‘Kay,” Quentin said, snuggling in closer to Eliot’s body. “Tell me the good parts.” 

“Well, there’s this school, I think—Brakebills. I was in my second year there. And the dean had asked some of us to—welcome in the new students. I was kind of a dick about it, lying there on top of the stone wall in front of the main building, smoking and holding this little card that said, ‘Quentin Coldwater.’ And I saw you stumble through the trees and onto campus, and you were really very confused—” 

“No letters delivered by owl?” 

“No, just like a hard shock to the system and a surprise exam. No hand-holding.” 

“A magic exam?” 

Eliot laughed. “Yeah. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” 

“Not really,” Quentin said. “Not to me.” 

“Hm, no. It wouldn’t, I guess.” Eliot smiled. Quentin had his eyes closed now, maybe imagining it. “And then you walked up to me, and I saw you—so like, innocent looking—” 

Quentin laughed. “Not _really_.” 

“Yeah, I know that now. Let me finish,” Eliot said, laughing a little. “You were adorable in your blazer you were wearing for your Yale interview.” 

“Fuck Yale,” Quentin said. 

“Okay, totally agreed. But—you were beautiful. And I knew I wanted you.” 

Quentin sighed against him. “Hm, that’s nice.” 

“Really not so nice,” Eliot said. “Given that I planned to seduce you and leave you wanting me your entire first year.” 

A smile split Q’s face, his features crinkling, delighted and giggling, just a little. Dimples for miles. “Yeah, but I like that you wanted that,” he said after a little while. “Tell me more. Just the good things.” 

And so, Eliot did, focusing on the sharpening memories of Q in the first months he knew him. He might have embellished some things. But only just a little. 

It was a good day, really. Spring was on its way to the city, and he’d let out the weight of so many things, and he had a warm boy on his lap who he just might be in love with here, in this world—it didn’t matter the reason, did it? It was stupid, silly. But beautiful all the same. 


	20. Dreamed of All the Different Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am sorrynotsorry for indulgent sexting. We're all trapped the fuck inside my horny friends, so here we are. And don't we love slutty Quentin? We do. Or we wouldn't be looking on Ao3 for "explicit" Queliot fics, would we? No warnings. 
> 
> I hope you guys are all okay. I know this is a really trying time, no matter where you are. I hope to keep writing this and make it as delightful as I can and keep sharing it with you as I attempt to navigate homeschooling and being a stay at home parent (I wasn't before). Queliot makes it all better. May it be a balm for all of us.

~Quentin~

It was kind of a weird walk home, to be honest, and Quentin almost walked into the street a few different times. Eliot had that effect on him. Which was—like both amazing and totally unfortunate. 

The unfortunate part, Quentin thought as he scaled the stairs and slid his key in the lock, was that he didn’t really know who he was anymore. Or who Eliot was and what they were really meant to be to each other. It was a minor irritation in a sea of good things. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that minor. It was some major shit. And Quentin’s brain pretty often—almost always—melted down when it came to major shit.

Because— _because_. In this world, if Eliot had seen Quentin in that bar, without magic or memories or that pull from another life, would he have noticed Quentin? Wanted him? It seemed like, as _real_ as everything felt, Eliot’s attraction to this Quentin, the boring graduate student who wasn’t a magician, seemed completely implausible. Quentin—the Quentin here in this world, the _him_ Quentin—had spent his whole life being unnoticeable. He was pretty sure his advisor didn’t know his name, and his Russian Lit professor kept calling him “Quincy.” And there were only five people in that fucking class.

The thought gnawed at him, like rats eating through electrical wiring one piece at a time, breaking down the connections, tearing apart Quentin’s afternoon with Eliot, who had called him _beautiful_ and _lovely_ , had touched him, tracing his fingers over Quentin’s neck, to the crook of his shoulder, threading his fingers through Quentin’s hair and resting his hand there. His stomach swooped at the thought of Eliot’s hands, big and strong and elegant and _skilled_ , hands that brought him pleasure like he’d never known before.

If there was a word for ‘both anxious and horny,’ Quentin was that word. 

Despite the tenacity of the rodents in his brain, Quentin still felt wrung out and warm and floating, like he’d been rinsed and put out to dry in the sun when he ambled to his room, kicking off his boots and falling into bed. He was sleepy (and anxious-and-horny), and he rolled over onto his stomach, pulling his covers over his head and attempting to quiet the thoughts in his brain with slow breaths. 

His phone buzzed. He picked it up hopefully—but it was _Alice_. Jesus, just what he needed. 

“Should have blocked you,” he mumbled, opening up the text thread. He’d completely forgotten she’d texted in the first place, which was—well, in a way, it was progress, wasn’t it? He’d stopped worrying about one relationship in favor of another. So. That was something. 

**Alice** : I really miss you Q

Quentin rolled his eyes. 

**Quentin** : what do you want Alice? I told you I’m dating someone else

‘Not _not_ dating,’ anyway. Dating might be overselling it a little, but he felt like overselling it a little despite his stupid brain-rats and all the shitty, dumb, insecure things they made him think. Alice—fucking Alice—could take his relationship status and shove it up her—

 **Alice** : There’s something interesting I wanted to show you. Can you meet me tonight? My place?  
**Quentin** : Send a link. No offense intended, but it’s not healthy for me to see you.  
**Alice** : ok 

Alice and her goddamn passive aggressive bullshit ‘ok.’ Or even worse. Just ‘K.’ He’d gotten that one a lot toward the end. She liked to type everything out—perfect spelling, perfect grammar (unlike Margo who texted like James Joyce on a bender mixed with a partially literate wild animal—weird, a little experimental, difficult to understand, and often, angry). 

Quentin shoved his phone under the pillow. That’s something that—well. Eliot had mentioned Alice, briefly, stepping around it when they were together at the park. He knew it was—complex. In a way, he could feel that _through_ Eliot, almost. He had loved Alice. Really. But, even though she’d been the one doing the breaking up—and he’d just agreed, apathetic, he knew it had been the right thing, ultimately. He couldn’t keep up the petty competition with her, the bickering about studying and grades and ‘more ambitious’ things that Quentin ought to be doing. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

He slid out of his bed and into the chair at his desk. This room felt so tiny. He hadn’t noticed how small it was, how confining. Of course, it was the size of a walk-in closet, like literally every affordable apartment in Manhattan. But after he had spent the day (and the night) with Eliot, everything here seemed a little bit… cramped. 

He pulled his legs up beneath him and opened his computer, typing a bit absently on his essay—like he had at the coffee shop when he’d first met Eliot—not really thinking but not really _not_ thinking either. Just letting the words come to him, one by one, maybe dancing around the point of the whole project. He wrote about doors in walls and the liminal spaces between worlds, all the nooks and crannies and in-between places that fantasy authors favored in their writing. It tracked that the misfits always found those secret spaces, the ones no one else could reach. He’d always thought, in idle moments, that he wished he could find a cupboard door someday, an entrance, a pocket between worlds, a place that finally felt real—something to explain why Quentin didn’t quite fit anywhere he went. He never thought that door would _actually_ show up in the form of a walking sexual fantasy. Yeah, that part didn’t need to go in the essay. But it did make him think that maybe that home had come to him. A dangerous thought. A thought beyond any he’d let himself think in the frantic days since meeting Eliot Waugh.

Quentin realized he hadn’t eaten anything when the sky grew dark (and he’d been looking at his phone every twenty minutes, but who was counting? He wasn’t). He wandered out into their living room to see Penny scowling at him from over a bowl of ramen. He decided not to give Penny shit about checking on him last night even though Penny kept scowling at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Penny replied, going back to his noodles. 

“No. Seriously, what?” Quentin grabbed an orange juice from the tiny, whirring fridge in their what-passed-as-a-kitchen area. 

“Your friend still here?”

“She’s doing girl things with Margo. Which is probably not what it sounds like. Like, not pedicures or talking about boys. They’re probably trying to—blow up a bridge. Just a really—” Quentin pulled a box of possibly stale Corn Pops from the counter and poured it into a bowl, dry. “—like, weird combo. Slightly scary.”

Penny huffed, giving out just the barest hint of a laugh. 

“She’ll be back soon,” Quentin said, shoveling dry cereal into his mouth, thinking of Eliot lifting sugar packets off the table at brunch. Julia might just drop out of _Yale_ and show up here, trying to learn magic off Eliot. Eliot. Jesus, what the fuck was happening to his life? “I’ll tell her you want her number.”

“You wouldn’t,” Penny said, looking up. “We have milk—are you a fucking animal?”

Quentin walked back to his bedroom and shrugged, taking the Corn Pops with him, and he worked a little more. About an hour before nine, he still felt rattled, all these things knocking around inside of him. He fumbled around with his medicine, taking his Zoloft followed by an Ambien because he needed to fucking sleep if—if he was going to make it to _go on a date._ And. Well. Sex, the sex he was planning to have.

The lovely thing about Ambien was that, for Quentin, it usually took effect in about twenty minutes. The not-as-lovely thing about Ambien was that sometimes it didn’t put him all the way to _sleep_ in twenty minutes. Instead, at times, Ambien had him blearily looking through antique books on eBay (which was how he had acquired that first edition set of _Fillory and Further_ one day near the end of his undergraduate career). Ambien _lowered_ inhibitions, which is why Quentin _shouldn’t_ have taken it. At the very least, he should have put his _phone_ the fuck away after taking it. With all the things banging around in his head? He should have known better. He was halfway through ordering an illustrated edition of _The Hobbit_ when he looked at his phone again, looked at it and looked at it, and then he started typing.

Saturday, 9:22PM  
**Quentin** : if you just met me randomly would you like me  
**Quentin** : like at a bar your bar or whatever bar  
**Quentin** : would you want me

“Oh no, oh fuck,” Quentin said, blinking rapidly and staring at his phone. “No, no. Shit, shit, shit.”

 **Quentin** : I mean never mind  
**Quentin** : I’ll see you tomorrow 

“Jesus fuck. That’s worse.” Quentin groaned, groggy and bleary, eyelids heavy. 

**Quentin** : I’m sorry I took an ambien good night

Quentin shoved his phone up beneath his pillow, queasy but already half-forgetting that he’d sent that awful, damning series of texts. It definitely—well. It seemed more like a dream, hadn’t it? He closed his eyes, falling asleep quickly beneath the heavy, hypnotic sway of a traitorous sleeping pill. 

He awoke to buzzing beneath his ear. He sat bolt upright and pulled his phone out, pulse thrumming out of control. Had he sent those texts to Eliot? He _had_. All the things from his inner idiot had poured out right before he fell asleep, and _fuck_ , he opened his phone—

Saturday 11:43 PM

 **Eliot** : hey  
**Quentin** : hi  
**Quentin** : sorry  
**Eliot** : stop  
**Quentin** : stop what  
**Eliot** : apologizing  
**Quentin** : ok I’ll try  
**Eliot** : good it’s not cute  
**Eliot** : but you are and I would like you  
**Eliot** : I would want you  
**Eliot** : I would take you home with me  
**Eliot** : and I would fuck you

Quentin smiled. He laughed a little, the grating, biting insecurity fading and settling a little. It was so re- _goddamn_ -diculous. It was nonsensical. Eliot wanting _him_.

 **Eliot** : and I’d make you take me out to dinner  
**Eliot** : because I’d like you  
**Eliot** : I just happened to get a head start on liking you  
**Quentin** : you make it sound very reasonable  
**Eliot** : I’m very reasonable over text  
**Eliot** : you should go back to sleep  
**Quentin** : I’ll probably be up for a while now with  
**Quentin** : thoughts  
**Eliot** : oh? what about?  
**Quentin** : what you said  
**Eliot** : I said many things in rapid succession  
**Eliot** : was there anything of particular interest  
**Quentin** : about what you said  
**Eliot** : what did I say  
**Quentin** : about fucking me?  
**Eliot** : definitely shouldn’t be a question  
**Quentin** : I mean it’s not  
**Quentin** : it’s what I meant, I’ll be thinking about  
**Eliot** : I’m on break in five minutes  
**Quentin** : yeah?  
**Eliot** : I’d like to hear what you’re thinking  
**Quentin** : it’s private  
**Quentin** : just kidding  
**Eliot** : lie on your back and don’t get yourself off while I’m serving drinks to tacky fashion students. you WAIT  
**Eliot** : don’t touch your dick  
**Eliot** : quentin

Holy Jesus. He stared at his phone like it had no right to go blank after that. He had to _wait_. Eliot had said so.

Quentin bit down on his lip. He very awake, still sort of anxious (like _why_ had he picked up his fucking phone before he fell asleep?), and definitely extremely… turned on. This was—Quentin didn’t know what it was. Quentin didn’t do these things. He didn’t— _sext_ —and he didn’t tell Alice to fuck off. And he didn’t have, like, illegally attractive men sort of _showering_ him with attention. And sending him sexy text messages—well, _fuck_ , he was really, really hard now. Just lying in his bed waiting like he _wasn’t_ going to see Eliot tomorrow, like he hadn’t seen him a few _hours_ ago, like he was desperate, like he had been away too long—and he was thinking about Eliot’s lips and hands and his big fucking dick and his smirking little comments and the way his mouth felt on his cock and—

His phone buzzed. 

**Eliot** : I’m on break for the next ten minutes  
**Quentin** : that’s not much time  
**Eliot** : Hm well then share with me what you’re thinking about  
**Eliot** : better than apologizing to me about liking me  
**Quentin** : it was the ambien  
**Eliot** : okay. I believe you.

Quentin was shaky, his hands trembling a little and he didn’t really know what to type, and he definitely _should_ be sleeping. 

**Eliot** : you’re hard already aren’t you

“Oh my God,” Quentin whispered, screwing his eyes shut and wincing as he moved beneath the sheet, the weight of his comforter, the pressure of his underwear like, almost, far too much for him.

 **Quentin** : yes very  
**Eliot** : don’t touch yourself until I say, ok?

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek. 

**Quentin** : okay  
**Eliot** : what have you been thinking about I want to know  
**Quentin** : your mouth on my cock

Quentin moaned a little, his hips hitching a little upwards. It was so good—too good—to even—think—

 **Eliot** : good topic go on  
**Quentin** : you looking up at me when you get me off. coming in your mouth  
**Eliot** : I like the way you think. I’d get you hard again after that and open you up  
**Quentin** : how  
**Eliot** : with my fingers like this morning, with my lips and my tongue. I could make you come without touching your cock once  
**Eliot** : eat you out until you’re begging me to fuck you

Quentin swallowed hard, swallowing against something like stone in the base of his throat. He tasted salt and metal—excitement and _fear_ , fear that he’d do it wrong, that he was doing everything wrong—and he closed his eyes, imagining Eliot, hands and tongue working him open. 

He wondered if Eliot was taking his break outside, casually propped up against the brick wall behind the bar, smoking and regarding his phone coolly, wearing one of his pin-stripe button-downs and maybe a fucking chambray vest (Jesus, those vests), and slim, tight trousers cuffed at the ankle, which looked horrible on anyone else but fucking incredible on Eliot. His tie might be loose by now, carelessly askance, the top buttons of his shirt undone— _Jesus_ —he was out of his depth. He had no idea how to respond but—

 **Quentin** : that’s what I want I want you to make me beg  
**Eliot** : it’s in my plans tell me more

 _Fuck it. Go for broke. Maximum effort. Maximum reward._

**Quentin** : i want you to make me beg for your cock so I can’t think about anything else I can only think about that  
**Eliot** : for how long  
**Quentin** : as long as you want  
**Eliot** : what next  
**Quentin** : tell me you’ll fuck me until I can’t remember my own name  
**Eliot** : noted  
**Quentin** : and then get me wet and push inside of me until you bottom out and fuck me, I’m begging you to fuck me  
**Eliot** : but I’ll tell you I want to take it slow, drive you crazy  
**Eliot** : and if you’re nice  
**Eliot** : I’ll fuck you like you want  
**Eliot** : if you tell me what you need

Quentin groaned, his whole body taut and coursing with that deep-rooted need he’d felt pulling him toward Eliot from the very first time he saw him. Blood rushing in his ears, mind filled with _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot_ , the feeling of his name on Quentin’s lips, wanting him, hoping in that moment that he would know Eliot desired him in the same way, that he had the same vast ocean of need that rose and crested through Quentin’s body and mind and soul—

 **Quentin** : please fuck me  
**Eliot** : tell me exactly  
**Eliot** : what do you need Q  
**Quentin** : I want you to fuck me hard with your big dick  
**Eliot** : be specific  
**Quentin** : I want you deep inside of me, fucking me slow and hard and then faster when I get close, want your hand on me, working me and making me come with your hand  
**Quentin** : please please please

He was shaking. And it was sort of intensely fucking amazing. And he really really needed to—

 **Eliot** : I want you to get yourself off now, go on and touch your cock. You’ve been so good

Quentin pushed down the waistband of his boxers and wrapped tentative fingers around his aching cock. He let out a really, really, unfortunately loud moan, stroking himself slowly, trying to make it last, draw it out. He huffed a choked little breath because he was _so_ close, so close, and he wanted so much more. How could one person fill every missing piece of him and push every button and leave him wanting so much _more_? Was he supposed to type more—oh _God_ —he didn’t _know_ —

 **Eliot** : I bet you’re close. Don’t worry about responding just pull down the sheets and make yourself come

Quentin threw his comforter and sheet down, squeezed his eyes shut, and thrust up into his hand, his mind tipping into blankness, into oblivion. All he could see or think or feel was _Eliot_ , and suddenly, everything seemed possible. Believable. Real. He came with a rush, the air punched out of him, spilling warmth over his hand, over the expanse of his abdomen, thinking only of him, _Eliot_. He stroked himself once more, oversensitive now, groaning with relief, the tension spilling out of his body and leaving him boneless and sighing. He was still gasping when his phone buzzed again.

 **Eliot** : you good?  
**Quentin** : oh my god  
**Eliot** : so yes  
**Quentin** : yes, really good  
**Eliot** : it’s fucking tempting to ditch this place and crawl in bed with you so I can fuck you senseless  
**Quentin** : not the worst idea  
**Eliot** : I’ve had worse ones  
**Eliot** : I need the tips I’ll just have to take it out on you tomorrow  
**Eliot** : goodnight Q  
**Eliot** : I do like you, a lot  
**Quentin** : good because I also like you. And you’re really good at all of that  
**Eliot** : all of what?  
**Quentin** : s e x t i n g  
**Eliot** : oh I haven’t even gotten properly started  
**Eliot** : goodnight Q I’ll be thinking about you

Quentin clicked off his phone, satisfied now. After he cleaned up, he didn’t give thought to Penny hearing him or how to impress Eliot on their date. His mind was pleasantly fuzzy, and he went right to sleep.


	21. Just Like Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to narumikaiko for making my writing better! 
> 
> This is a gigantic pile of fluffy smut. Like, there's a little plot. But dive in and get ready. Mostly fluff, smut, and feelings. 
> 
> The finale... so, that happened. This will hopefully help your week. Since Queliot is OTP and not that whole other thing.

Just Like Heaven  
~Eliot~

It had, all in all, been a really weird fucking night. Marina’s fucking ridiculous ‘team meetings’ had always pissed him off, and tonight was worse than usual. Marina kept looking at him, exchanging looks with Kady, and Todd was jabbering about something to do with karaoke, completely oblivious to the fact that no one was listening to him. Eliot had reached a peak level of exhaustion. The whole week had been a glorious shitshow, and now… he was still Eliot, but he bore the weight of a couple extra lifetimes. Those two lives faded in and out of each other, blending with his own memories until it was difficult, at times, to parse who he was and what exactly he remembered. 

He knew Marina from those lives before. While she was reckless, selfish, and brutal then, she was different here. She was still brimming with sharp, often self-serving intelligence and biting invective, and she was ruthless when it came to promoting her business and maintaining her reputation. Here, Eliot had known her over a year, and while she was cold and critical, she was highly methodical and serious—and, perhaps, slightly. humbled in comparison to the other Marina he had known. She also knew something about all of Eliot’s shit. He could read it on her face—but only, he thought, because she hadn’t actually _intended_ to hide it.

After the team meeting, which he was only barely paying attention to, Marina caught his arm on his way to have a cigarette outside. “Eliot, we need to have a chat.” 

“Hm. I’m going to need to have this cigarette, so you’ll have to come with me. Okay?”

“Fine,” she said, stepping out of the building behind Eliot and watching as he lit his cigarette. “Smoking will kill you.”

“A lot of things have tried to kill me. Hasn’t happened yet.”

“Eliot Waugh. So fucking cavalier.” She smirked, leaning against the door.

“You know you can tell me anything, Marina. My friend who took care of me,” he said. “Saved my life. All that.” He drew in smoke and exhaled a gray cloud. 

“Yeah, we’re besties now, clearly.” He could hear the sarcasm woven into her words, but there was no real meanness there. She gave him a discerning look and brought her fingers up to her face, making a rectangle with her thumbs and forefingers and investigating him through the small window. Ah fuck. She was checking him, wasn’t she? “Thought so.”

“Thought what?” Eliot flicked his eyes in her direction, exhaling smoke, leaning against the rough, cool brick. 

“You know, don’t you? I can see it on you. Your whole accident was fucked up and weird, and I thought I saw a flicker of it then. But it’s strong now. Really strong. I’ve been keeping an eye on you to see what was going on. And you have magic now. You’ve used it.”

“Yeah.” Eliot shrugged. “It’s been a weird week. And you gave me some kind of healing potion. Thanks, I think.”

“Mm hm. You’re welcome, loser. Turn around.”

“Marina, we hardly know each other. And I barely swing that way.”

She rolled her eyes and motioned again for him to turn around. He could feel the small woman behind him, studying the back of his head. “I’m going to look at your wound here, okay?” He felt her slim fingers in his curls, could feel her investigating the wound. When she touched it, even gently, a stinging shock zapped through his system.

“Jesus Christ,” he shouted, pulling away. “Shit. Well, it’s okay as far as I can tell. As long as you don’t poke the shit out of it.”

“Don’t think it’s all ‘okay’,” she drawled. “I think something big happened when you got injured. And I think it could have been magical in nature.”

“Then it shouldn’t be able to heal so quickly,” he said, turning back around. He stubbed out his cigarette against the brick wall and flicked it out into the night, moving his fingers up and watching the cigarette butt hover for just a moment. He snapped his fingers and watched it disappear. The memory of learning to do that was vague, something from the later years of the life before he came here. That particularly hazy patch of memories.

“Not necessarily. And how the actual fuck would you know that?” Marina asked sharply. 

“Oh? You didn’t know? I got imbued with an extra set of memories. From an Eliot who existed in another dimension. I think we’re sharing a consciousness,” he said coolly. “We’ve just got the same shitty origin story. It branches off right after I graduated from Purchase and got that off-Broadway audition to for that all male version of _Romeo and Juliet_. Here, I got the part and started making costumes after that. And started doing lots of cocaine. There, I opened the door to go backstage and ended up at Brakebills. And also started doing cocaine. That seems to be a consistent thread, actually.”

Marina laughed, really laughed. She reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to contain herself. “Holy shit. That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah, well. All par for the course. I think I came here for my soulmate or something. Which honestly does seem like the sort of misguided shit I might do as a lonely old man, who, shocking to nobody, is… was… also an alcoholic.” He tipped his head toward Marina with an arch smile. “Another common theme. I don’t think my impulse control got any better in my old age.” He took another cigarette out and lit it, this time with a quick movement of his fingers. 

Marina crossed her arms. “Impressive. Pyromancy. Telekinesis. Interdimensional… brain transfer?”

“I think someone did that last one for me.” He regarded her, taking another long drag on his second cigarette. “I take it you’re a hedge here, too.”

“A what?”

He shrugged again. “Guess not.”

“Is that what they call it?”

“Hedge witch. You were the top bitch in New York.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Didn’t like us very much. Classically trained magicians. I was a snob.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’re still a snob.”

“Oh yeah, totally. Just not a magic snob. That’ll come with time, I’m sure.”

Marina laughed. “I’m sure it will. You can do more in a week than I could after months of study. And there’s no such thing as a classically trained magician here, not that I know of. Brakebills _was_ here. But it’s not now. So you’ll default to being one of us. If you want.”

“Us?”

“Me, Kady. Pete. And—”

“No.”

“Todd.” She groaned a little. “He’s shown a bit of aptitude since your accident, actually. I haven’t talked to him yet. And he’s not self-aware enough to know what the fuck is happening. But it’s been very fucking odd—whatever happened to you brought _more_ magic here, like a significant amount. Whatever casting was used to get you here was extremely powerful, and it left a tremendous amount of power behind.”

“Hm. Yeah. Well, that part of my memory is pretty much wiped. I remember getting sick. I remember getting older. I don’t remember getting _here,_ though.” As far as who had helped him get here, Eliot had his suspicions. 

“That was likely intentional. This would have been a cooperative spell, and likely derived from a significant source of power.” Marina sighed, her breath turning to white vapor in the cooling night. “This sort of magic _doesn’t_ happen here.”

“So I’m some kind of anomaly.”

“One that was recklessly and forcefully introduced into our universe, yeah.” Marina crossed her arms, studying him.

“It’s funny, you know. The you I know from the other memories really doesn’t give a single fuck about recklessness. Or staying in the right universe, actually.”

“I’ll bet she never worked as hard as I did.”

Eliot nodded, slowly. “You had quite a lot of power, very naturally. You were at the top of your class when I was a first year, and then you got expelled. You got back to school, though, and you got your memories back from the dean. Not all done in a really… thoughtful way. Reckless, dangerous. No regard for others.”

“Sounds like a bitch.”

“Tough bitch. Sneaky. Smarter than everyone else.”

“That does sound right. But I guess this world wore the recklessness out of me. I discovered I had magic about five years ago now, and I’ve been working to uncover it since then. Like a historical excavation. I failed out of graduate school because of it. It’s my life.” Marina sounded so genuine in that moment, almost like a normal, non-sociopathic human. Maybe that character trait just didn’t display in every timeline. Or universe. Or what-the-fuck-ever.

“And what do you want from me?”

“Join us if you want to.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “The offer stands whenever. We could learn a lot from you. I think.”

Okay, the other Marina wouldn’t have given him a choice. He’d be bound up in some kind of contract, likely without his knowledge. And then she’d start poisoning people just for the fuck of it. “Um. Okay. Lots to consider.”

“But more than that—I think I ought to warn you to be careful. You died. I think that was intentional. I’d thought you might have overdosed—”

“Entirely possible,” Eliot said. “I’ve been functioning on that assumption.”

“But I think it was the head wound that killed you. And that happened in this world. I think whatever got you here just took advantage of your death. Whatever killed you, I think it was magical. There was a kind of magic—residue—all over the bar when I came back the next day.”

“I’ll add that to the list of things I have to fucking worry about,” he said dully. It’s not like he hadn’t had the thought that someone had done this to him, that they might return; it just wasn’t as high up on his list of concerns. Quentin had been the main thing on his mind, which was foolish and stupid and totally on-brand for whichever Eliot, take your pick. In any time or place, Eliot was always going to make the appealing decision, regardless of the cost to his personal safety. And Quentin had been the most infinitely appealing thing in his life since… ever.

Jesus, all of this was really fucking overwhelming. If he wasn’t Eliot, he might need a fainting couch for the oceans of overwhelm. He might need one anyway. It would look nice by his balcony. It would have to be orange, he thought. A real splash of color.

“Okay,” Marina said, brushing her hands together like she was done with this fucking topic. “That’s all cleared up. We’re opening in five. Break at 9, break at 11:50. Make drinks. Make money. Okay?” She slapped him on the back before she went back in, long ponytail swinging behind her. 

“Jesus,” he muttered. Now he had to worry about shit being dangerous here. What a racket. If only older, wiser Eliot were actually wiser. He sure the fuck wasn’t. What a total shock.

He checked his phone before he went inside. Quentin hadn’t texted yet. 

***

The rest of the shift passed quickly, especially once Eliot saw Quentin’s texts and thought of an excellent way to distract him. He’d managed to unleash Q’s inner sexting queen, which felt like an especially fantastic accomplishment on a Saturday evening that was otherwise overshadowed with Marina’s dire warnings and magical curiosities. 

He preferred Quentin. By a mile.

It was silly to say. It was silly to even think it, really. But he really liked Quentin. In a possibly life-changing way. 

Eliot didn’t _want_ to think it. But he was electrified, coiled tight with need, lit up from within. And it was Q. Quentin. Who wanted him. Needed him. It was so much, so soon, and there was nothing Eliot could do to still the rise of these waters, as murky as their depths might be. 

When he walked home from the Stand In that night, he felt lighter than air, warm despite the chill of the night, smiling and buoyant with the images of Quentin curled up in his bed gripping his phone, blushing furiously, and typing to Eliot about how much he wanted to be fucked. 

This felt _different_ than all the things in his life that hadn’t worked. That was a treasonous thought, one that led down ugly pathways filled with angst and disappointment. But hell, Quentin was beautiful, and he was smitten with Eliot (a thought that sent the tiniest blush to Eliot’s cheeks), and he wasn’t half bad at sexting. He could see where this went, couldn’t he? He didn’t pause to think about how he didn’t exactly have a _choice_. The thought of not seeing Quentin was a crushing, ugly thing. 

He held onto the thought of Quentin wanting him so badly as he made his way up the stairs to his apartment. He focused on the knowledge that he’d see Q tomorrow, that nothing was going to find its way to Eliot and kill him by the morning, and _nothing_ was going to hurt Quentin.

“Wards. Fucking wards. I need this place warded up as fuck.” He thought about texting Marina, but it was probably better that he didn’t. They didn’t need a text thread on exactly what wards Eliot should use to protect himself—and anyone with long, floppy hair who might be staying at his apartment, hopefully a lot in the very near future.

He let out a long sigh and pulled on the weight of the lives within him, and he concentrated, closing his eyes and sifting through all the not-memories of castings that had come with him from that other world until he found the ones he needed—strong wards for his apartment, the ones that would reduce his visibility and keep him safe. He lifted his hands and wove the the tuts and sigils for the wards through the air, double checking the equations in his mind as he cast, until he could feel the honeycombed threads of magic woven over his apartment. They settled over his studio apartment like a heavy blanket, the air suffused with their protective warmth. It was only then that he let himself relax, still sorting through all that Marina had said, trying to wrap his mind around this new kind of danger that had arrived in his life. 

He fell into his bed, turning his mind to Quentin. He opened his phone and started rereading the texts he and Quentin had exchanged. Q was so eager, so needy, and Eliot wanted to give him anything, everything he needed. He stroked himself slowly and came with an unrestrained groan, thinking of rocking into him slowly, making him beg.

It would be best if he _wasn’t_ so thoroughly invested in debauching Quentin, if he could see past that set of tantalizing desires to plumb the depths of his own magic, make his life something bigger and more meaningful. But Eliot wasn’t one to give himself extra assignments, and Quentin was so enticing. He knew he could get an A+ in that course, so that’s where his effort was going for at least the next twenty-four hours. He could think about everything come Monday. For now, he would sleep and look forward to the simple pleasure of being with someone he wanted, who wanted him.

***

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Eliot said. He put his arm around Quentin, slinking it around his shoulders as they awaited the train in the pit of the subway station. God, he was too cute. So cute that Eliot wanted to whisk him away and tell him that they could just skip the date. The whole going out thing had seemed like an excellent idea because he liked being around Quentin, liked hearing him talk. But he had other things on his mind. Mm. 

Quentin twitched a little, looking very cute as he plucked at the sleeves of his loose gray sweater, eyebrows knit and a faint frown on his lips. But he didn’t pull away; he leaned into Eliot, looking up at the domed ceiling above them. “I’m not exactly the most creative—but I thought it would be nice.”

“The truth of it is,” Eliot said, bringing him in closer and kissing his forehead lightly, “I really don’t care where we go.” 

Quentin chuckled, leaning his head against Eliot’s shoulder (and oh, how he fit right there, tucked in against him, like he was made to be part of Eliot). “Good. Keep your expectations low. I’m not the best at—anything like this.”

“Anything like what?”

“Dating. Stuff. Stuff with dating.” Quentin fiddled with the sleeves of the button-down he was wearing beneath the sweater, and then he shoved his hands in his pockets, hard. Holding him close was a bit like trying to catch a sad puppy who’d gotten into a bunch of meth and was having a really bad high. He both _really_ wanted to be comforted and touched and also _couldn’t_ stop moving. 

Eliot turned Quentin to him as the train pulled up beside them, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Hey, we can just go back to my apartment.” 

Quentin’s eyes crinkled, and his dimples dimpled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not opposed. I think you’d like it, too.” He kissed Quentin’s forehead again and the line of his jaw, the sweet bow of his lips. Because he lived in New York and he was on a date with a beautiful boy, and he _could_. “I have plans for you.”

A flush bloomed across Quentin’s cheeks. “Yeah, you might have mentioned that.” Quentin giggled and stumbled a little as they walked across the platform and boarded the train. He ran his fingers over the stitching on Eliot’s gold-toned waistcoat, giving Eliot a bleary-eyed look that indicated his mind had gone somewhere else. 

Eliot smirked at Quentin and pulled him close as the train began moving. “You should tell me where we’re getting off so we don’t just ride into Connecticut while you fondle my vest.”

Quentin laughed and leaned into him, close and hot, bodies pressed together. “This is a little intense, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Eliot said, swallowing against a lump in his throat. “It is.”

Quentin mumbled something that Eliot couldn’t hear over the screech of the rails as they swayed side to side. “This is our stop,” Quentin said, tugging at him. “C’mon.” Quentin grabbed his hand and led him up the steps to the exit.

“Can you spoil the surprise now?”

“Nope. This is actually, like, the best date I’ve managed. So you better be, like, grateful.” Quentin held his hand and looked back at him, his dark eyes sparkling. 

“Okay, I already am, I swear—” Eliot started. 

Quentin laughed, and his eyes crinkled up in that familiar-nostalgic way that pricked at things deep in the swirl of Eliot’s psyche. Quentin pulled him around the corner, revealing the Whitney Museum of American Art. A few people were still wandering around, others leaving for the evening. “I’m a member at The Whitney—and I thought we could—”

“If you’re taking me to see art, I think they’re closing up for the evening. It is Sunday.” He stepped behind Quentin, slipping his arms around him. He brushed Quentin’s hair aside and whispered, “It’s the Lord’s day.”

He laughed again. “Yeah, well, I’ve got us covered. Come on.” Quentin haltingly embraced Eliot, leaning into him, tracing his fingers along Eliot’s forearms absently. “I, um, know you’re totally impressed.”

“Yeah, actually. Already was.” He took Quentin’s hand in his and walked toward the museum.

“I have a friend who’s a docent.” Quentin rambled about how he was trying to figure out what the _fuck_ to do on a date, and he remembered his friend worked at the museum, and she could possibly get them an after-hours tour. Eliot just hummed at regular intervals as they walked toward the museum, falling into the rhythm of listening to Quentin, his voice both stumbling and soothing, the rhythm and cadence something he’d loved since they’d first met. Q got especially antsy when talking about how he couldn’t plan anything to save his life, and how he had no idea why Eliot had told Quentin to plan this and how glad he was that his friend had come through at the last second. “Otherwise, I was just going to sit on the corner by your apartment, like, having a fucking panic attack.”

Eliot couldn’t keep himself from laughing. “Okay, keep your shit together. I can take a hint. I’ll do all the future planning—”

“Hey, now. I got us here—” They walked inside the tall doors and greeted Quentin’s friend, who handed them a pass. “—without having to take a Xanax. So, yay.” 

“Accomplishments abound, Q. I’m so proud.”

He sighed next to Eliot, his breath catching a little. “It’s so weird when you do that. I mean, it’s not bad weird.” He led Eliot up the steps to the second floor, where the new biennial exhibition had just been installed. 

“What’s not bad weird?” He squeezed Quentin’s hand.

“Just. I met you like this week. And you talk to me sometimes like you just met me, and sometimes… you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s just a little… disconcerting. It’s not bad. To feel known.” 

“You said you had—” Eliot looked around. “—like shadows of memories, feelings or—”

“Yeah, a little. When I’m with you. Or when I’ve been with you. Not much.” Quentin shrugged. The lighting at the Whitney really was stunning, and Eliot studied the highlights and shadows that played over Quentin’s face. 

“Like? I just… want to know what you know.” Eliot touched Quentin’s cheek and ran a thumb gently over his lower lip. 

“I. Um. I remember waking up with you in bed. And.” Quentin bit at his lower lip. “Margo.”

Eliot let out a soft, helpless laugh. “Is that weird?”

“Um, yeah,” Quentin said, fiddling with his hair. A blush made its way over his cheeks. “Really fucking weird. She’s like my big sister, kind of. Maybe worse than a sister.”

“Oh Q, she’s like nobody’s sister.” 

Quentin laughed. “Yeah, fuck. She’s not. But I’m not going to tell her. Please—don’t. I just. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Fair enough.” Eliot laughed. “I won’t. I might. I don’t know.”

Quentin swatted his arm, which made Eliot reflexively pull him in for a kiss. Because he couldn’t not. And Quentin had not mentioned Alice or how deeply he regretted sucking Eliot’s dick, which put Eliot in a tender sort of mood. “I thought you were straight,” Eliot whispered. 

Quentin laughed. “Hilarious. Because not at all.”

“I’m beginning to pick up on that.”

“I have other memories, too,” Quentin said. He held out his hand and walked with Eliot through the main exhibit hall, which was darker and a bit eerie and decorated with folk art and Americana. “Things related to what you told me about Brakebills. You greeting me on the day of my exam. And you flirted with me shamelessly. I thought it was a joke, you know. I remember that feeling. It wasn’t, I guess.”

“No.”

“Not much beyond that,” Quentin added. “Those are the clearest things.”

Eliot hummed, following Quentin through the hall. “Those are good things.”

“But not everything is good, huh,” Quentin said, a bit absently.

“No. I can’t say that it is. There’s a lot more and I’m sorry—there were things I said that weren’t—great.”

“Well, that’s not you, is it?” Quentin was leaning over and looking at one of the plaques beneath a creepy-looking painting of dolls. “So it doesn’t matter.”

Eliot’s heart thumped, and he paused, swallowing hard. “But it kind of is—”

Quentin turned and took Eliot’s hand, twining their fingers together. “Then it’s best if we don’t think of it that way. Right?”

Quentin leaned up and kissed him once, chastely, at the corner of his lips and pulled him over to an exhibit featuring portraits created with oil paint and delicate embroidery, which he thought Eliot might really like (he did). Quentin naturally babbled out his thoughts on each of the exhibits, which was a memory Eliot _didn’t_ have about that other Quentin. He didn’t suppose they had much time to go to galleries or talk about art, but here they both were in a different world, where other doors had been opened to them. It wasn’t part of them. Maybe it was, here. Maybe it could be.

Quentin loved looking at each of the portraits and talking about sculpture, pointing out the lines and materials of each piece by Noguchi and the way they represented the different decades of his work. “Like the, you know, sort of, positivity of each piece is more apparent in his work after the end of the Second World War, and with the wood as opposed to stone, it’s just _warmer_ , you know?”

Eliot knew. He could see it. “Yeah.”

“His sculpture is just like this fucking force of nature. So good.”

“Thank you,” Eliot said, a little rough. 

“For what?”

“For this. For believing me. All of it, I guess.” He took Quentin’s hand and turned him slowly, catching him in his arms and kissing him, relishing the soft, surprised sounds that came from his mouth as Eliot brought his hand to Quentin’s hair, brushing his thumb against his temple, his earlobe, the long line of his jaw. 

Quentin was panting when Eliot pulled away. “Well, it’s really. Um. The nicest thing that’s happened to me in, like, a long time.” He looked up at Eliot, all big-eyed and bright and hopeful, and Eliot thought his heart might crack into a million pieces. It actually felt like that, like something out of a fairy tale or a dumb romance novel. Like he might break apart and float away under Quentin’s gaze. He didn’t deserve it. Not for a second. 

“Hey,” Eliot said, breathy, moving his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck. “It’s not fair. What’s happened to me. And how I pulled you into it—”

“Hey, no, Eliot. It’s definitely not right—what happened to you. You didn’t get to decide, right? If it’s what you say, it was like some other, older version of yourself decided to like, transfer here. Like a fucking—exchange student. Except you—this Eliot—you didn’t really get a say. And yeah, it’s definitely the 21st century, and that seems pretty, um, nonconsensual.”

Eliot laughed. “Yeah, well. I doubt I really thought it through. Or if I did, I wasn’t considering the actual humans involved. I honestly doubt I understood what would happen. Marina said—by the way, she already knew about _magic_ ,” Eliot whispered, even though the museum was empty save for the few other people wandering through the after-hours tours. “She said that it was a really complex casting, something that required a lot of power, like god-level power. I’m sure whatever it was, I shouldn’t have been fucking around with it. Or whoever was researching the casting shouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“Jesus, I’m out of my depth,” Quentin murmured against him, his ear pressed to Eliot’s chest. “That’s a lot to carry.”

“I guess. It is what it is. At least I don’t think I’m going insane anymore.”

“You can tell me more later. It doesn’t all have to be now. I tend to get focused on these things and—”

“Don’t apologize. I need to talk about this, I think. I don’t want to. But you’re right. I have magic—that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” They stood there, holding each other, for a span of heartbeats. Quentin was drawn into Eliot, clutching him. “I feel it. That you’re different, that you have magic. Not only that, but God, it’s addictive—I can’t get enough.”

“So my magic aura turns you on?” Eliot whispered, half laughing. 

Quentin shrugged. “It is what it is. I mean, you do that, too. All by yourself.” He pressed his lips to Eliot’s neck, leaning hard against him, breathing him in. “You want sushi? I was thinking about sushi. Now I’m not, though.” He kissed over the line of Eliot’s collarbone, which was borderline indecent in a semi-public place, and Eliot’s low moan was _definitely_ indecent. 

“There’s always DoorDash. Right?” Eliot pressed his face into Quentin’s hair, taking him in, drug store shampoo and Old Spice. He brushed his fingers over Quentin’s cheek, so smooth. He’d shaven for Eliot. He wanted to look _nice_ , even if he hadn’t gotten his outfit exactly right (he hadn’t, but Eliot also suspected he’d run out of clean sweaters). 

“We’ve spent like thirty minutes looking at art. I thought we were going to be like, cultured, or whatever.”

“Culture. That was your idea.”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Take Me on a Date?”

Eliot shrugged. It was a lot harder to pay attention to art when Quentin was burrowing into him like a cat next to the permanent sculpture exhibit at The Whitney. There was another couple walking around somewhere below, talking low. He should have felt guilty, but really if they didn’t want people making out, they shouldn’t offer after hours tours in the first place. In his humble opinion. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it seems like a terrible idea. No good.” He looped his fingers through Quentin’s hair, pressing the pads of his fingertips against his scalp, reveling in the warm breath against him. 

“I have _reservations_ ,” Quentin said. 

“Hm, fine. Let’s go _now_. Eat sushi. And then—”

“Our reservations are for 7:30, moron. You’re ruining the whole flow.”

So _bitchy._ “Tell me you’re not trying to seduce me with your masculine wiles right now, in the middle of this art museum, and I’ll stop suggesting we blow off this date so I can—”

“Oh my God,” Quentin grumbled. 

“So I can fuck you,” Eliot concluded, brushing Quentin’s hair aside and nibbling at his ear. His clean, soft skin, even here, tasted so good. It was like a high for Eliot, too, being close to him like this. Whenever they were apart for more than a few hours at a time, Eliot could maintain a sense of relative normalcy. When he was with Quentin, even when he was _texting_ with Quentin the night before, he felt jumbled and shaken and effervescent, a champagne-bubble buzz rippling through his body at every touch, every endearment, every rambling tangent and sarcastic quip. And when Quentin looked at him, eyes big and pleading, raw desire apparent in his eyes… well, he liked art quite a lot, especially if it had to do with fabric and embroidery (stunning), but right now, he didn’t have much interest in reading the little plaques or pretending he knew anything about modern American sculpture. 

“I think you might be the one on the, um, seduction front.”

“Come home with me and order in.” He nibbled at Quentin’s earlobe and pushed him gently against the wall.

“Reservations,” Quentin whispered. 

“Mm, I’m like not at all interested. You’ve done your job, Q. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger. Didn’t even have to buy me a drink.” He slipped a hand beneath Quentin’s lumpy sweater and ill-fitting button-down, seeking out the heat of his flesh, grinning with pleasure when he jumped under Eliot’s touch. “God, you have such a nice body. It’s all hidden under your coats and jeans and—I just want to get you out of them—”

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin groaned. “Stop—we’re going to—” He laughed. “—get kicked out of our own date.”

“Okay, that settles it. We should definitely go back to my place and—”

“God, fine,” Quentin said, fumbling a little and pulling Eliot down to kiss him, holding onto his tie, which was exceptionally hot. It was really, phenomenally hot. Eliot had definitely wanted this—a sweet, lazy Sunday evening date with Quentin. But his mind had gotten completely rerouted somewhere around the tenth time Quentin spouted off a fact about American folk art. “Fine, take me the fuck home. Date failure,” Quentin said bitterly.

“Not even remotely.” He whisked Quentin away to the stairs, nearly taking them two at a time and pulled him out of the doors and toward the subway. Even in the station, filled as it was with a steady bustle of revelers and tourists, Eliot couldn’t keep his hands off of Quentin. Pressure had built up in all of the places where Eliot wanted Quentin, and he needed relief. Needed to touch him, have him, devour him, leave him shaking and speechless and limp.

“I hate you so much. I still really want sushi,” Quentin muttered as Eliot pulled him up the stairs toward his apartment building. 

“I promise,” he said, bringing Quentin in close. “We’ll get sushi delivered. I know we can accomplish that.”

“Yeah, but—” Quentin furrowed his brow.

Eliot kissed him there, pressing his lips to the worry lines creasing Quentin’s forehead, attempting to take the ache of his anxiety away. “Yeah, but. I have plans. Don’t you remember your poetic string of texts—”

Quentin laughed, eyes twinkling with mischief, red-cheeked and sweet and still holding Eliot’s hand. “Actually, I have literally no memory of talking to you, like, at all last night. I would never be such a ho.”

“Those messages were Ambien-fueled as well?”

“Along with a purchase of an illustrated edition of _The Hobbit._ Which also didn’t happen last night. Like it was wiped from my memory.” Quentin gestured to his head and very seriously mimed a slate being wiped clean, which was adorable and nerdy and gave Eliot a sharp little pain in the center of his chest. 

He buzzed open the entrance of his building and dragged Quentin inside with him, pushing him against the wall immediately and kissing him greedily. “So you don’t remember begging me to fuck you? That you’d rather not recall your own name on Monday morning?”

“That,” Quentin mused between kisses, “doesn’t ring a bell. Doesn’t sound like me. I’ve never wanted that. Certainly wouldn’t text you about it.” He giggled, squirming under Eliot’s touch. 

“I have evidence.”

“Total invention of your imagination, El,” Quentin said, tugging at his tie and the buttons on his waistcoat while they were both still in the shitty little foyer of his shitty apartment building. “I definitely didn’t re-read all of it this morning and jerk off in the shower.”

“Oh, you didn’t? Tell me more about what you didn’t do.” He started dragging Quentin up the two flights of stairs, pulling at that stupid, bulky sweater and tossing it down in the hallway in front of his door. 

“Hey, I like that sweater,” Quentin groused.

“I forbid you from wearing it ever again,” Eliot said, nuzzling into Quentin’s neck and fumbling with his key until it fit into the lock and the two of them stumbled in. Eliot automatically redid the wards that he’d tightened over his door, leaving a shimmer of magic in the air. 

“Fuck,” Quentin said. “I won’t. Ever. Wear it again.” His eyes were wide as he watched the crisscross of the ward magic dissipate. 

Eliot shouldn’t have been as thrilled as he was that Quentin seemed to _get off_ on magic, but here he was. “Oh, you like that?”

Quentin bit his lip. “Yeah, that’s really hot. I can’t lie—I really don’t give a fuck about sushi at this fucking point in time… I just want…”

“What do you want?” Eliot’s fingers flew over the buttons on Quentin’s shirt, stripping him to the gray jeans that, thank God, actually fit Quentin’s nice little body. He’d done this a lot—hundreds of times—and he’d even done this with Quentin, quite a lot if he included the whole other timeline bullshit. It just felt so amazing right now, at this exact moment in time—the unabashedly sensual movements of his body, the way he responded to every touch with a sigh, his mouth greedy, his body taut and tremulous. He stayed near Eliot, touching him as he undressed himself, his hands and lips automatically seeking out Eliot’s skin. 

“El, I want you,” he murmured. “Eliot.” Like an invocation. His name had never sounded lovelier on anyone’s lips.

Quentin was down to his boxers—gray this time, not fucking plaid, though honestly, he’d just like to dress Quentin up in all plaid and set him up by a fireplace like a doll with ill-fitting clothes, just for his own amusement or sexual fantasy or whatever. Eliot slid the palm of his hand against Quentin’s half-hard cock, relishing Quentin’s soft little whines, the way he said Eliot’s name and kissed him like he’d been starved of Eliot’s touch, like this was everything he had ever wanted. 

“You still want—” Eliot started.

“Mm yeah, I want this,” he said softly, grabbing the waistband of Eliot’s underwear, dipping his hand inside and grasping Eliot’s cock, as Eliot half-frantically moaned and flung his boxer-briefs to the floor and more or less threw Quentin on his bed. Quentin threw his legs around Eliot, groaning, arching up against Eliot’s cock. “Please, oh please—oh fuck—”

Oh Jesus Christ, Quentin was secretly really, really slutty. Well, not so secret. 

Quentin was not at all subtle about his ardent, allegedly inexperienced, desire for Eliot’s dick. Maybe ‘unexpected’ would be the better way to describe it. Unexpected in the way he wouldn’t really expect a skittish plaid-wearing, former (current?) dungeon master to say things like, “I need your cock inside me like fucking yesterday” or “Hold me down and fuck me until I don’t remember my own fucking name.” Yet, here they were. Quentin kept rambling off the dirtiest things, right into Eliot’s ear, like his brain was stuck on some kind of trampy autopilot and he was afraid Eliot might not fuck him if he stopped. It was frenzied and slightly unhinged and undeniably thrilling. 

Eliot collapsed against Quentin, laughing and kissing along his jaw and down over his neck as Eliot removed Quentin’s offending boxers, chucking them to the floor. “You’re a dirty little slut, Q,” Eliot said, tongue flicking over Quentin’s earlobe. Eliot pressed his body over Quentin’s, his hips hitching forward, sliding his cock against Quentin’s. “I had no idea.”

Quentin moaned, wrapping his legs around Eliot. “I thought I’d made that like, really, really clear.”

There was a swooping sensation at Eliot’s core—consuming hunger growing inside of him, his want Quentin, taking over his capacity for rational thought and wringing it all dry. Eliot had built his life around careful control, on keeping his veneer intact. He’d grown even more that way in the past year, heartbroken and hardened and cynical. Quentin had a way of plucking that wound up string inside of him, unraveling him, bit by bit, until he could no longer pretend. 

He collapsed against Quentin, just feeling the heat of him, his firm body, his pulse, the sweet, solid reality of him, his breath against Eliot’s ear. He buried his face against Quentin’s neck, licking and nibbling at his skin as Quentin gasped. “How are you so good at making me feel—” Quentin arched his body up against Eliot, whining. 

Eliot let out a sob as he rocked between Quentin’s thighs, hips stuttering as they brought their bodies together, arousal and raw emotion pouring over Eliot like rain, like a flood. He remembered Quentin, older than this, just beginning to go gray, the Quentin who’d so matter-of-factly told Eliot he was in love with him, that he’d always love him, whether they were at the mosaic. _’Any time, any place,’_ he’d said. _‘It’s always you, El. It’s always been you._

Eliot breathed in deep, kissing Quentin’s neck, flicking his tongue and tasting his skin, reveling in his _realness_ , his presence. He wasn’t the Quentin of a dream or a half-foggy, half-sharp remembrance from another timeline. He wasn’t the Quentin of Eliot’s searing grief, the one he sought to dull with alcohol and drugs and boring men, well into his fifties. This Quentin was real, and he wanted Eliot, needed him, begged for him so sweetly. “Quentin,” he panted, placing kisses along his jawline. “Q—I—”

“It’s okay, El,” Quentin said, wrapping him in closer, holding him. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Well-worn sense-memories rose to the surface in Eliot’s mind, intense and intimate, all the ways they’d sought each other out, and all the ways they’d lost each other. The grief was visceral, present, painful. Like it had all happened a matter of days ago. He had to remind himself that it was okay. Quentin was here, desperate for him, longing for him.

Eliot caught Quentin’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “It’s so much. There’s just… so much.”

“I know. We’re here together, okay?” Quentin pressed his mouth to Eliot’s collarbone, kissing along his skin, tongue just barely grazing his skin. “We can just get sushi if you want. Just abandon the whole—fucking—thing.”

“Ah, no,” Eliot said. “No, no.” He laughed, felt Quentin smiling and shaking against him, stifling his own quiet laughter. He propped himself up and looked down at Quentin with his mussed hair, his deep brown eyes wide and searching and full of lust. He pushed a bit of Quentin’s hair away from his eyes. He liked it this length best—long, but not too long, thick and cascading like a dark wave with hints of gold. “This is still what you want?”

Quentin huffed a little and rocked his hips up against Eliot, still wrapped around him. “Um, I really. Think I’m being pretty obvious about what I want.”

Eliot snorted. “Very obvious. Thought I’d check.”

“So, then,” Quentin whispered, lips to Eliot’s ear, “do something about it.”

“Such a naughty boy,” Eliot said, gripping a fistful of Quentin’s silky hair and tugging, just a bit. “You want me to fuck you? You sure?”

“Fuck you—yes, I’m sure.” Quentin rocked up into Eliot again, cock hard and just a bit slick with sweat and precum, sliding again with Eliot’s own hardness.

“Roll over for me,” Eliot said, voice rough, shifting his own body and watching Q roll onto his stomach, exposing his firm ass and the smooth, lean expanse of his back. Quentin shivered as Eliot ran his hands over Quentin’s sides, over the curve of his ass, down over his thighs. He pressed his thumbs into Quentin’s tense muscles (muscles that were always tense), listening with relish to Q’s little moans and sighs and comments ( _more—there—oh my God—_ ). And then.

“I thought you were going to fuck me,” Quentin said, looking back at Eliot through a curtain of of his fucking hair, skin flushed pink, lips parted. He was making an attempt to look slightly indignant, but it wasn’t really going over. 

“Patience,” Eliot murmured. If the dark look in Quentin’s eyes sent a jolt of heat straight to his cock (it did), Eliot maintained his composure (as best he could). He leaned forward, draping his body over Quentin’s again, basking in the little whimper from Q as he settled in against him, his cock pressed right at the sweet curve of Quentin’s firm ass. He brushed Quentin’s hair aside, settling his lips at the nape of his neck, kissing slowly down his spine, tasting the salt of his skin, taking in its texture with his tongue. He moved lower yet, tracing tongue and fingers over the small of his back, rubbing a thumb over the divot at his hip, sweeping his hands back and down, watching Quentin’s body jump at each touch, listening to his jagged sighs and the slight whine as Eliot gripped his hips. He grabbed Quentin’s ass again, spreading his cheeks and licking between them, savoring the heat against his tongue, the musky taste of him, distinctly Quentin’s, both familiar and new. He remembered these things, remembered what Quentin had loved, what made him go insane.

Quentin made a long, low, animal noise, arching his back and pushing up instinctively, closer, as Eliot licked into him, using his tongue to open him and relax the tension zinging through Quentin’s compact body. And he did open; Eliot felt it, explored it, going deeper as Quentin’s body vibrated beneath him, as he made little choked-off noises, _ah ah ah_ , lovely and perfect and plush and soft. God, he felt so—would feel so—amazing. Eliot kissed around his rim, pressing against him, lightly, with the pad of his index finger.

“Eliot—fuck—” Quentin pushed back again, this time against Eliot’s finger. Eliot lifted himself, slightly dazed, pulse pounding in his temples, achingly hard and dripping and ready.

“God, Q—just wait. Hold on—I have a—something I can do, I think.” He moved his fingers in a quick tut that felt as natural as breathing, and they were slick now with lube—his lube, the good stuff, from his drawer. Which was—translocation? And it fucking figured—didn’t it?—that the spells Eliot remembered the most were for sex. (And hangovers.) And Quentin was… staring at Eliot over his shoulder, panting and really… horny for his magic. Eliot could continue to roll with that.

“You did a sex spell—oh my _God_ —that’s so fucking hot—” Quentin met Eliot’s eyes, still pushing, pushing against Eliot’s slicked fingers. Eliot sank that first finger inside of him, just a little ways, feeling barely any resistance and marveling at the heat, the give of the muscle, the nice stretch. Quentin looked back at him, debauched, fucking back and bearing down against Eliot’s hand, his body responding just for Eliot as he slipped a second finger inside, exploring the plush, satiny heat, moving his hand, deft and practiced, in just the right way to get him relaxed, slick, open for Eliot’s cock. The thought was an impossibly heady rush, a dropping sensation in his core—how it would feel to be inside of him, his responsive body. Eliot’s chest clenched and fell as he slid another finger inside. Quentin sighed and whimpered and fucked himself back on Eliot’s fingers, looking completely wrecked, begging now. “Please, oh God—don’t stop—oh my fuck—Eliot—that’s so fucking good—”

“You like that, don’t you? Like my fingers inside you? Think you can take this cock?” He stroked himself lazily, slowly, trying to contain himself, prevent himself from losing his fucking mind while Quentin keened at Eliot’s words, his body clenching frantically against Eliot’s fingers. 

“Yeah, God yeah, I can take it—want it so bad—” 

“Okay, baby, slow down now. I’ll take care of you, okay?”

Quentin made a small, affirmative whimper, nodding slightly behind the sweep of his hair. Eliot worked his fingers inside of Quentin, pressing slow and languid, twisting just slightly every now and then. When Quentin tried to move back against him now, he shushed him and stilled him, placing his right hand at Q’s hip, just to keep him in place. With each movement, Quentin let out a huffy little whimper, like it was causing him pain to stay in place, to keep still for Eliot. But Eliot needed him pliant and ready, so he kept working his fingers into Quentin until his sounds reached a fevered pitch. “Now—please fuck me now—El, please—please—I’m—so—”

“I do like the sound of you begging. I know you’ll be so good for me,” Eliot said, falling into that headspace he sometimes did—and with Quentin, he always had. Something in Quentin made him feel possessive, here and now and in every memory that had passed through him. _Mine_ to touch. And Q just did what he wanted him to do, moved where he was told, even if he got a little bitchy. 

“I will. I’ll be so good,” Quentin moaned. He barely knew what he was saying if Eliot had to guess. 

“I know you will. You’re so good. You’re opening up so nicely for me.” Eliot smiled, continuing to finger Quentin with aching slowness. 

It was strange, knowing this about Quentin on a deep level, the memories of lifetimes edging to the surface with every touch, every kiss, when the Quentin here, the one right here, quaking beneath Eliot’s touch, didn’t quite know these things about himself. It was like having a full cheat sheet—a fucking cheat _notebook_ —and he knew maybe that wasn’t fair to them, either. The fact that Eliot knew so much, carried so much, and knew Quentin’s history almost as well as he knew his own; that knowledge create a tether, a bond that grew with every touch, with every memory that had once shaped his relationship with Quentin. 

Eliot figured, though, that this wasn’t a time to debate the ethics of knowing exactly what Quentin wanted. Because he was breathing ragged and nearly sobbing now, all on display for Eliot. Only for him. 

“Please—I’m ready—just please—”

“You just think you’re ready,” Eliot said with a smirk. Quentin was slick and molten-hot and definitely ready, but the frustrated groan from Quentin was worth the teasing. And he’d whined about not being super experienced, though it was really clear to Eliot that Q had already been sticking things in his ass for a while. 

“C’mon, El, please—or I’m going to come all over your—fucking—expensive quilt—” He forced the words out, looking again at Eliot over his shoulder, pupils blown, eyes far away. He licked his lips. “Just—put your dick—in me.” He groaned again, trying desperately to move his body back again, stopped by Eliot’s hard grasp on his hip. “Please,” he added. “Fucking please. God. Come on.”

“Fine,” Eliot said, rolling his eyes theatrically, moving Quentin onto his back again, leaning down to place a kiss on Quentin’s lips, tasting him, the saltiness of his sweat, groaning a little and burying himself again between Quentin’s thighs, his cock iron-hard. So familiar, so much like coming _home_. Quentin blinked prettily, long eyelashes damp, eyes dark and wide and full of hunger. He surged up and kissed Eliot again, his strong hands wrapping around Eliot’s back and neck, fingers tangling in his curls, drawing him closer, legs wrapped around him. Eliot brushed his thumb over one nipple and the other, still kissing him with deep intent and admiring the little moan that came from Quentin. 

It was intimate and close and romantic, not something Eliot frequently sought with the guys he brought home. Sex was a means to certain ends—sating that nagging human need for closeness, producing endorphins, breaking up the monotony of life. With Quentin, it was different. (With everything, Quentin was different.) Eliot could read the expressions on his face, hear his voice, touch and kiss the slope of his neck, feel him hard and hitching up against Eliot’s hips. 

“C’mon, fuck me—I’m getting hungry,” Quentin said, bucking up against Eliot again, needy. 

Eliot laughed and pressed his lips to Q’s shoulder and nipped at him, causing his breath to hitch, another whimper. “So impatient.” Eliot lifted up and did another quick tut, slicking up his hand and spreading lube over his cock. “It’s a lot to take. You gonna manage?” He pressed his lips to the line of Quentin’s hair.

“Not like you’re arrogant about it—or anything,” Quentin huffed. 

“Definitely not,” he murmured, shifting his position and pressing the head of his cock against Quentin’s hole, pressing just—ever so gently—until Quentin went still beneath him, breathing heavy and hard, eyes fluttering as he relaxed and took just the head of Eliot’s cock inside. 

“Oh—” Quentin tilted his head back, eyes clenched shut, like it was too good, like he wanted it too much. Eliot put his hand against Quentin’s delicate neck, just holding him gently as he pushed in just the smallest bit more, sending a shiver through the entirety of Quentin’s body. “So good, oh God that’s—right there—oh—more—I need—unh—”

So Eliot sank in, slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, into the plush, tender tightness of Quentin’s body, rubbing his thumb over Quentin’s pulse point, down to the hollow of his neck, dipping his head and licking over Quentin’s hard, dusty-pink nipples. Quentin was trembling, gripping Eliot’s shoulders, hard enough to hurt, to bruise. Eliot shifted and tutted quickly, adding more lube to his cock, filling him further as Quentin whined and moaned his name, blissed out and trying to pull Eliot into him, his ankles hooked around Eliot’s calves. “You feel so fucking good, baby,” Eliot murmured. Quentin drew him in closer, pulling Eliot’s cock into him, just the slightest bit more. “You like that? You think you can take more?”

Quentin gasped as Eliot drove in a bit deeper. “Yeah, fuck—I want more—give me everything—God—I didn’t—didn’t know it could be—so good—”

“God,” Eliot breathed. “Yeah, it’s so fucking good when it’s us.” He hadn’t meant to keep saying such dopey, lovesick bullshit, but he really didn’t fucking care at the moment. He was buried inside Quentin, listening to the music of his moans and sighs, watching the small movements of his face, the journey of pleasure as he received Eliot, made room for him, took his fill. Eliot’s hips stuttered forward a tiny bit further, moving on instinct and maybe too fast, but Quentin shivered with pleasure, cheeks and chest flame-red, his eyes dark with lust. 

“Eliot,” Quentin sighed. “Oh fuck, so—full—mmmnn—”

“You’re so gorgeous, baby… you’re doing so good for me, Q. God that’s—” Eliot let out another half sob as he sank in further, as Quentin bore down against him, welcoming him in. Electricity buzzed between them, the air crackling with sex and magic, the slick-wet sounds of their bodies joined together. Eliot’s entire body shuddered as he fucked into Quentin, the base of his cock now almost flush with Quentin’s ass. He leaned down, pressing his hands into the mattress, his lips to Quentin’s, lightly kissing his soft, bitten lips, as he hitched forward and bottomed out. He caught Quentin’s groan in his mouth, felt teeth biting his bottom lip, felt the feverish draw of Quentin’s mouth to his. Eliot held himself there, encased and surrounded, wrapped in Quentin’s strong arms, and then started moving ever so gently.

Quentin brow was furrowed, hair damp with sweat, his body shaking beneath Eliot. “Oh, El—oh my—God—”

“It’s not too much—” Eliot meant to ask the question, to go slow, be methodical, but his hips were already hitching forward, rocking into Quentin’s delicious ass, into the velvety wet heat of him. 

“Fuck, El—no—you feel so good—so good—so big—” Quentin whimpered, throwing back his head again and letting out staccato huffs in time with Eliot’s rhythm. 

Eliot fucked into him slowly, so carefully, pulling back to feel the drag of Quentin’s muscle, the smooth, close space of him, plunging forward to feel the clutch of his ass, groaning with brain-melting need with every thrust. His skin prickled, his mind swirling with magic and stories and memories and _love_ when he closed his eyes. Every time they’d been together in this world, there was something in the air—the sharp, peppery feel of ambient magic, soaking into his skin, humming in the room around them. Eliot couldn’t tell if it was already with them or if they were creating it, invoking it. 

The magic lifted and grew as Eliot surged into Quentin, and the not-quite-memories, the dearest ones that came to him in good dreams, saturated his conscious mind. The Quentin of that other time and place blended with the man beneath him. Something inside of Eliot felt like it might break open, unspool, leave him utterly undone. Every nerve ending was lit aflame with that knowledge, and he buried himself in Quentin again and again, sinking into the sensation of knowing him, fully and truly, losing himself in Quentin’s panting and his pleased cries. He angled himself so he could feel Quentin’s hard cock between them, leaking and messy and beautifully hard. 

“El, oh—El. ’S so good. So good—” Quentin bit down on his lip and swallowed a shout, grinding his body up, his breath coming short and sharp and fast. “I’m close—want your—hand on me—”

Eliot let out a long groan, still fucking into Quentin, harder now—he couldn’t stop his hips from working into him. He was moving fast and rough now, making Quentin’s body jerk beneath him. “Whatever you want baby—but I—ungh—I’m gonna move you. I want you on top—want you to come all over me—”

“God, yes. Fuck.” Quentin let out a punched little noise as Eliot slowed to a stop and leaned in to kiss him fervently, tenderly, each peck punctuated by a small thrust of his hips because he just _couldn’t_ stop entirely, could he?

He slowly rolled them over with Q on top of him, pink-skinned and glistening, his cock hard against his belly. “You look so pretty like that, Q. Wanna see you like that every… fucking… day.” Jesus, Eliot didn’t know what he was saying. It was ludicrous and reckless and based on someone else’s life—but it was so real, so much more real than anything that Eliot had felt for another person.

If Q thought it was ridiculous, he didn’t let on. Instead, he was nodding, breathless, as he started to ride Eliot, rocking his hips, his body searching for that feeling that would bring him right to the edge. “Please, I wanna come—I want your hands—”

“Okay, baby. You’ve been so good. You take that cock so well, don’t you?” 

Quentin let out a sound like the air had left his body. “Yeah, fuck,” Quentin said absently, “God, it’s big, so good, El.”

Eliot let out a long, shaky sigh and wrapped his fingers around Quentin’s splendid cock. He gripped and stroked him firm and slow as Quentin rode him, rocking forward and back down, languid and lazy now that he was getting exactly what he needed. Eliot focused on Q, increasing his speed as waves of pleasure started building inside his own core, toes curled, tingling all over, the need for release climbing and reaching a fever pitch inside of him. Quentin rode him faster, picking up his pace and crying out helplessly. “Stay still, Q. Let me make you come.”

Quentin sighed, breathy, sunburnt-red, and he let Eliot hold him. Eliot fucked up into him, grunting and primal, no artistry left except the need to make Quentin come and empty himself deep inside. He stroked Quentin, tight and fast, fucking him harder and watching his face—eyes crinkled and half-shut, lower lip pulled between his teeth, pure bliss etched over his face. Quentin’s mouth opened and he let out a shout, his body spasming and clutching against Eliot’s cock as he spilled over Eliot’s hand and chest. Quentin went limp, falling into Eliot’s arms, over his slicked and sweaty chest, making little overwhelmed, panting sighs as Eliot fucked into him, harder, so hard now, and he was taking it so well, just like Eliot needed him to. He had the wild thought that this was the first of many times with Q, that he could be here and keep Quentin if he was just good enough—enough for Quentin to stay. He would be anything, do anything, suffer anything to make that happen. Eliot cried out as that coil at his center unraveled, pleasure growing in his core, zinging down his spine and into his thighs as he crammed himself all the way inside Quentin, clutching him as he came, filling him. 

Another bit of magic surged in the small studio apartment, and the light over the kitchenette flickered. Eliot let go of all the dark and hidden things inside of him, holding Quentin tight and kissing him, unrepentantly taking him and claiming him, thoroughly unable to entertain the thought of ever letting him go. 

“God, that was—”

“Yeah,” Eliot agreed. “Yeah.”

They were a complete and total sheets-need-changing kind of mess. But Eliot held onto Quentin, pulling him in close and settling him in the nook of his arm, bodies slick and sticky, smelling of sex and sweat. Quentin grumbled about food and the shower, but Eliot quieted his whining with a kiss and pulled him in tight. He wanted to tell him about the mosaic, that little pocket of time where he was happy—really happy. Not that there hadn’t been moody days where Eliot drank by the stream and Quentin stayed in bed with his ratty old hoodie pulled over his head. Not that Eliot hadn’t been incredibly jealous of lovely Arielle, no matter how many times Q assured him that he still wanted Eliot, so much. Not that Quentin didn’t have a bad year—fucking awful, really—after Arielle had died. But that was the year they’d finally started to settle in the men that they were becoming, into the couple that they became together. Those memories felt almost too intimate to share, too complex to explain. Quentin was saying something to him, but he had drifted off into those old thoughts. “Hm?”

“I asked if you felt the—you know. The magic.”

“Yeah, I did.” He sighed. “I honestly have no fucking explanation. And I was a professor of fucking magic.”

“Noway,” Quentin said, smiling, batting Eliot on the arm.

Eliot tried not to roll his eyes. “I got a decent house on campus, and Dean Fogg never minded how much I drank. So, that was my job. Right near where I lived—where we lived—when we were there. I was settling for a life that didn’t make sense to me. And Margo was in California—”

“She moved to California?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell her. But she had kids. I remember them as little girls.”

“No fucking way.”

“Yeah. I seem to recall she felt like infertility was a fucking challenge she could win. Like Welters.”

“What’s Welters?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. It’s magic chess. And it’s horrible. We’ll never speak of this again.” 

“Oh, come on, El, tell me something good before I drag you to the shower.”

“Margo made you play on our Welters team. And she was very fucking serious about Welters. You cast some kind of vortex into existence and did some pretty impressive cooperative magic.”

“With who? Anyone I know here?”

Eliot cringed and looked down at Quentin, pushing his hair back. “Alice. It was with Alice. She was—the Alice I knew, I mean—she was an incredible magician.”

“You were friends.”

“In the end,” he said. He closed his eyes, hoping he could convey a finality to that piece of the conversation. Alice was even better at grief than Eliot was. She’d moved on, hadn’t she? Had a family. An illustrious career. Margo’s girls utterly adoring everything she did. She’d grieved hard and horribly after Quentin’s death, but she grew as time went on, above and beyond the trauma of their youth. Eliot had hints of happiness, here and there, chances for it, even. But he had defaulted to numbness, more and more with every passing year until Mia and Margo took him in. They’d been his redemption in the end, hadn’t they? And the magic that had gotten him here? He’d bet money on Alice—and fucking Julia—being the ones to figure it out. With Margo orchestrating the whole bit. He had no specific memories of any of that, but he knew it like he knew his own name.

“That’s good, I guess,” Quentin said, worrying at his lip. “We should, um, order food. Shower.”

“Mm, yeah,” Eliot said. “Drag me to the shower, order sushi. Check check.” He kissed Quentin on the cheek and let himself be dragged, and they stood under the hot water together for a long time.  
***

“Okay, but what’s a good viewing experience for consuming delivery sushi?” Quentin flicked through Netflix. He was wearing a pair of Eliot’s cashmere joggers from Neiman Marcus, rolled up three times at the ankles, and one of Eliot’s guest kimonos—a burgundy satin that really worked with Quentin’s skin tone. He was eating a fried salmon and cream cheese roll (horrifying) out of a takeout box balanced precariously on his lap. He opened a packet of soy sauce and dumped it on the entire roll. 

Eliot groaned. “I’m not sure I can get sushi with you ever again.”

“What? This is good. I know it’s not, like, _authentic_ or anything. But I want to get food I like. Not like a pile of raw fish.” He gestured to Eliot’s perfectly reasonable selection of sashimi.

“You’re defeating the entire purpose of eating Japanese food.”

“Thank you for my lecture. Now pick something to watch.” 

Eliot didn’t have a TV since it didn’t really blend with the aesthetic of his apartment, so they were sitting on Eliot’s couch with his laptop propped in front of them. He clicked through a few options. “Queer Eye goes to Japan. I haven’t binged it yet.” (He had.)

“Perfect. Maybe I’ll pick up something about like, real Japanese culture. Or dressing well.”

Eliot clicked on the show, vaguely watching the credits roll and thinking absently about Jonathan Van Ness’ hair routine. “You’d dress very well under the proper tutelage. I swear if you let me—”

Quentin rolled his eyes, pretty lips parted. “I feel like I’ve already been talked into something, but I don’t know what.” 

“Shh, don’t you worry. You have. You just don’t know it yet. I’m going to convince Margo to come shopping with us.”

“Jesus Christ. What if that’s, like, not a thing I’m going to do?”

“I don’t follow.” Eliot picked at his sashimi. It was good, just not amazing. It didn’t have cream cheese in it. Some long lost piece of Indiana inside him wished he had a fried roll filled with cream cheese and cooked salmon.

“Whatever. I doubt I’m getting out of it if you can figure out a way to make it happen. Margo might not want to go anywhere with us.”

He meant ‘with Eliot,’ but it was fine. “She’ll come around. I have my ways.” He snuggled up close to Quentin and snatched a piece of his sushi roll with his chopsticks. 

“Hey, that’s mine—”

Eliot ate it. “Not anymore. It is pretty good.”

“You’re jealous of my fancy roll,” Quentin said. He leaned over and kissed Eliot, so casually, and picked up his glass of Riesling. (It went well with sushi, and Eliot still had three bottles.) 

“What was that for?”

“Because.” Quentin laid back on the couch and put the remnants of his food aside, drinking white wine from a glass specifically made to hold white wine. The kimono was hanging open, exposing that nice little body, and the joggers that were too long were really the finishing touch. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he watched the Fab Five arrive in Tokyo. 

It was all very boyfriend-y. His heart double-thumped, and Quentin, like he knew that Eliot was vaguely freaking out, leaned into him and took Eliot’s hand in his. “So this woman—whatshername—is a Japanese celebrity, and she just had the clout to bring the entire show to Japan.”

“Kiko.”

“Who?”

“That’s her name. I mean, she said it. That’s the only way I know. Because I haven’t watched it yet.” Eliot moved Quentin closer to him and watched his lips as he drank the wine. 

Quentin started to ramble about privilege and the presumption that Western Culture outweighs the ideals of Japanese culture. Eliot halfheartedly argued that it was just feel-good TV, and he loved the grooming and fashion piece, and Bobby could really do some magic to a home in only a few days, and look how happy they all were on their shopping trips. They bickered back and forth until Quentin finished his wine and lay down across Eliot’s lap. And then Eliot couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

“Who’s your favorite?” Quentin asked after a while, still watching and biting on a jagged fingernail. 

“Jonathan,” he said automatically. “No contest.”

“Yeah? Why?”

Eliot shifted a little, looking down at Quentin. “I respect his midwestern trauma. And his hair. It’s so long and shiny.” He brushed through Quentin’s hair, watching it fall through his fingers. “I’m from Indiana. I forget if you know that or not.”

“You hadn’t told me. But I do know. From wherever.” Quentin waved his hand. “You read his book?”

“I listened to it. I don’t have time for reading.” He shrugged, swallowing a bit of discomfort. That book had made him weep on the floor while he was reorganizing his closet at the end of the summer. It was probably the only book he’d read—or listened to—that wasn’t school-related in the past two years, at least. 

“He’s a pretty brilliant writer.”

Eliot smiled. That _would_ be Quentin’s takeaway. “Yeah. It was—hm. He’s very vulnerable. Not afraid to be himself. And it was beautifully written.” He took a few strands of Quentin’s hair and braided them loosely. “Who’s your favorite? Or is this your first time watching?”

“No. I watched all the available seasons after my break up. And my favorite is—well, everyone loves Jonathan, right?”

“I’m guessing that no, everyone doesn’t love Jonathan,” Eliot said, prickling.

“I mean. I do. He’s brilliant. But I know what you mean. No, they probably don’t. And he’s really out of fucks to give on that front.”

“He’s cultivated an astoundingly zero-fucks attitude. When you’re that queer and from the actual ass-end of nowhere, you have to cultivate _something_.”

They talked, drifting in and out of the thread of their conversation and watching the episodes roll into one another as Quentin nudged himself closer and closer until he was lying almost entirely on top of Eliot. His eyelids had started to flutter shut by the end of the last episode. Eliot sat there for a long time, stroking Quentin’s hair and watching him sleep, draped over Eliot’s body in terribly uncomfortable looking position. When Eliot’s legs started to fall asleep, he bullied Quentin over to the bed and out of the kimono. When he fell in bed next to Quentin in the clean, soft sheets, he lay there for a long time, listening to Quentin breathe. 

He guessed if his other self had come here specifically for this, for Quentin, his reasoning wasn’t half bad. Even if he hadn’t considered all the fucking particulars, and of course he hadn’t, Quentin seemed worth the trouble. All he had to do now was keep himself from fucking it up. Oh, and try not to get killed again. That was also on the to-don’t list.

He fell asleep with his lips pressed against Quentin’s forehead. Outside, it started to rain again, lulling them both into a quiet, deep slumber where everything felt perfect for just now.


	22. Twisting in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: a bit of Quentin's canonical anxiety.
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovely readers. I've been sick with a gross virus this past week and still have a cough. We hope it's not THE virus, so I'm chatting with my doctor today. Chapters may be a bit slower from here on out due to everyone in my house being sick (SOMEHOW, I have no idea) and my start on another fic for MHEA! I hope to do at least once weekly updates. Follow along! And hit me up on Tumblr. @hoko-onchi-writes

~Quentin~

It felt familiar, waking up next to Eliot. It felt like home. The warmth of his skin, the softness of Eliot’s dark chest hair pressed against his cheek, his woodsy-earthy scent.

Eliot was still sleeping, and Quentin had half an urge to run his fingers through Eliot’s hair, to trace over the curve of his long neck and down over his shoulders. The scene—Eliot sleeping, next to him, their bodies comfortable and close—put him in mind of something. He could almost make out the shape of that memory—a wood-burning stove, the smell of damp earth, a light breeze with petals falling to the forest floor, the laughter of a child, the feel of magic in the air. There were only faint wisps, nothing he could really hold onto. He desperately wanted to pull that memory to the front of his mind, to latch onto it and live in it, like it was something precious that he lost, something he could never get back. His heart felt heavy in his chest, pained. He could wake Eliot, ask him, tell him he needed to understand this memory, make sense of it. Instead, he curled in close and listened to the beat of Eliot’s heart, the rhythm of his breathing. It was steadying. If he couldn’t hold onto that memory, that vision, he could hold onto _this_.

He tucked himself in the crook of Eliot’s neck, right where he belonged. Even if it sounded foolish to even consider belonging to someone he sort of just met, it felt like the truth. Quentin had always believed that there were underlying truths to the important pieces of life. He wouldn’t call it destiny, exactly, but more an understanding of the soul and what it had space for. The memories and history that spilled out of Eliot exposed some of that truth, made Quentin feel justified in the way he wanted Eliot, needed him.

In the cool, gray light filtering in through the tall apartment windows, in the tangle of limbs and sheets and the deep softness of the bed, in the heat of Eliot’s breath and the scent of his clean, warm skin, those truths circled between them, permeating the air, becoming a part of Quentin as they settled in his mind. Despite the winding path that had led them to each other, their foundation felt as immoveable as granite when Quentin was able to feel it, latch onto it, tune into it. When he was physically separated from Eliot, that’s when the doubt started to filter in. But here, he was full of heavy sureness. 

That sounded insane. It was insane. They’d only just met, hadn’t they?

But the images of that life lived elsewhere were slowly becoming clear, fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle, and Quentin knew these were the building blocks that had created the unshakeable connection he felt with Eliot. Some of the memories had that hazy, lovely feeling, a life where Eliot had belonged to him for a long time. But others were grim. There were scenes of violence, grief, crippling trauma. Unimaginable loss. Worst of all, Quentin knew he no longer existed in the world that had given him Eliot. The knowledge sat, heavy and uneasy, at the center of his chest. This loss was something that Eliot hadn’t been able to put behind him; he’d been unable to recover. It seemed implausible that Eliot, so striking and charismatic and glamorous, hadn’t been able to let go of awkward, perennially depressed Quentin. As unbelievable as it was, Quentin could feel the shape of that particular truth, transferring like electricity between the two of them. And he knew, here in this world, Eliot had found Quentin in order to heal. That knowledge was heady and intoxicating and surreal, a balm for Quentin’s typical negativity; when he closed his eyes, he could feel the beat of that truth beneath his skin, like a pulse. Eliot had loved him. And here, if it was all to be believed, they might have another chance. 

Quentin put his lips to Eliot’s skin, right at the soft point between his neck and shoulder, tasting him, savoring smoke and salt and sharpness. He pressed his lips into the heat of Eliot’s skin, over the line of his collarbone, up over his shoulder. He’d not intended to wake Eliot up; that was the whole point of tucking into him quietly. But he couldn’t resist. This was the essence of Eliot, and Quentin found himself wanting to draw it in, make it a part of him. Whatever truth there was, he wanted it.

Eliot groaned, low and guttural, arms drawing Quentin to him just as they’d done that first surreal night they spent together. Whenever they were together, Eliot wanted him close, touching whatever skin he could find, and Quentin couldn’t help but climb him like a tall, sexy tree. He’d fallen last night asleep poured over Eliot’s lap. He wanted to curl up there, buried in him forever. It was a legitimate plan, honestly.

Eliot stirred to wakefulness, his lips immediately finding Quentin’s forehead, his temple, the curve of his ear. Eliot’s broad hand ran over Quentin’s back, pressing against his skin, covering an alarming amount of territory. It sent a zing down his spine. How had he gone so long in this life _not_ being held by Eliot Waugh?

Strong, skilled fingers kneaded into his lower back, and Quentin groaned a little as Eliot rolled Quentin on top of his body, massaging him gently and kissing along his stubble until he found Quentin’s mouth. “Morning, Q,” he mumbled between kisses.

“Mm, hey,” he said. “Morning.” 

“You look so pretty in the morning, baby. So sleepy and delicious.”

Eliot’s voice, gravely and low, undid Quentin, more than his touch, more than the closeness and the memories and the profound knowledge that Eliot had loved him once, somewhere far away. The cadence of his voice unspooled something inside of Quentin, and he relaxed into Eliot’s body, savoring him. Heat bloomed in his hips, in the pit of his stomach, suffusing his body. His cock started to stiffen against Eliot’s hip. A soft moan slipped from Quentin’s mouth, and his hips snapped forward ever so slightly, seeking friction, the comfort of Eliot, his body, the simple presence of him. Eliot chuckled a little and shifted, pressing his lips to Quentin’s, kissing him slow and deep. 

Quentin’s breath hitched, and he let out a little cry as Eliot flipped him onto his back in one deft motion. He leaned down over Quentin, so much taller and bigger, his body imposing, powerful. God, why did he like that so much? He could just… give himself over to Eliot’s careful, clever hands, his strong arms, letting go completely.

Eliot took his hair in his fist and tugged gently, tipping Quentin’s head back and sending a jolt through his body. He closed his eyes, gasping, and lost himself in the closeness of Eliot’s body draped over his, Eliot’s tongue in his mouth, Eliot’s knee pressing between his legs and nudging them apart. Eliot rained kisses over Quentin’s chest, his shoulders, up over the tender, sensitive skin of his neck, nibbling at his earlobe and taking hold of Quentin’s cock, stroking it lazily as Quentin groaned and bucked up into his hand. He thought his brain might blank out, might finally break for real, just stop working. How was sex this good? How was this even a _thing_?

“You’re so hard,” Eliot murmured, his lip gentle against Quentin’s ear. He tightened his hand around the base of Quentin’s cock.

“Oh—my—God—” Quentin let out a long, keening moan as Eliot stroked him, not quickly enough to make anything happen, not yet. It was unfair; that’s what it was. He’d intended to—what the fuck did he intend to do today? It was—what day was it? It was a weekday, he thought. Yesterday was… something. Sunday? He didn’t know, and he didn’t actually fucking care. 

Eliot spread kisses over Quentin’s hot, flushed cheeks, meeting Quentin’s eyes, watching his face as he stroked him. “I want you,” he said, pupils blown, rimmed with hazel, a smirk forming on his face as Quentin gasped and pushed himself into Eliot’s hand.

“Oh—fuck—Eliot—”

Eliot let out a low moan when Quentin said his name, like that was somehow spurring him on. “Wanna be inside you, okay?” The words came out rough, low. Needy. “Can you handle it again?”

Quentin tried to focus, biting down on his lip, still contained by Eliot’s long fingers, his warm grip. He nodded, a little frantically. “Yeah, yeah—I want to—”

“This might feel a little—” 

Quentin gasped. “Magic?”

“—weird. Yeah.” Eliot laughed a little, leaning down and nipping at Quentin’s shoulder. “You like that so much, don’t you? Magic?”

Quentin smiled, cheeks a bit flushed. “Yeah,” he breathed. “There’s no point in pretending I don’t like— _oh_ —” 

Eliot’s fingers were moving in the half-light of the morning, and he was saying something, soft and hurried. Quentin bucked up, all at once, suddenly aware that he was filled with slickness. “Yeah—that’s—wow—”

Eliot placed a feverish kiss on his lips. “Gets the job done quickly—when you need—” Eliot moved one of his numerous throw pillows beneath his hips, gentle and sure, and pressed his cock against Quentin’s entrance, which felt open and ready and wet. “—to get ready quickly—”

Eliot slipped the head of his cock inside, groaning loud as Quentin whimpered and brought his hands to Eliot’s face, bringing Eliot down into a rough kiss and biting down on Eliot’s lower lip as he pushed in further, just a bit. Shuddering, Quentin lifted his legs and held them loosely at Eliot’s sides, shaking and panting and _wanting_ this so much, wanting everything he could get from Eliot. Had there ever been a time, a universe, where he hadn’t wanted this? The back of his head prickled, a rush running down his spine as Eliot pushed in further, breath hot against Quentin’s lips, his hand moving to Quentin’s throat, like he knew that’s exactly what Quentin wanted—a show of strength, a sensation adjacent to danger. But instead of feeling threatened, Quentin felt safe and known with Eliot’s strong hand against his neck, holding him in place. Eliot grabbed the iron bed frame with his free hand and slipped in just a bit more, making Quentin sigh and rock against him, legs tightening, beckoning him in further. Just a little bit—Quentin felt the heat rising in his body, his nipples growing hard and his chest and face growing red and hot, cock straining and toes curling as Eliot thrust again and entered him fully, hips cradled between Quentin’s legs, their bodies pressed tight together. He felt lit from within, ablaze.

“Oh _fuck_ —” Quentin’s hips were moving reflexively, rocking against Eliot. 

“Good?” Eliot moved his hand and brushed Quentin’s hair back from his face, raining kisses over his cheek. 

“Yeah, so good, El—so good—” Quentin melted beneath Eliot’s touch, boneless and floating. He let the needs of his body take over as Eliot moved inside him, pulling back and plunging inside, groaning and panting like each movement was a revelation, like he was grateful, relieved, sinking into bliss just as Quentin’s mind tipped into the oblivion of pleasure. 

“God, baby, you’re so tight—you feel so—fucking amazing—” The words spilled from Eliot’s mouth as he fucked into Quentin, faster now, but still tightly controlled. The friction of Eliot’s body against his already sensitive, straining cock, Eliot’s mouth pressed to his, his big, steady hand holding Quentin down… it was almost too much. Pleasure built within him, piece by piece, growing into a solid nucleus of tension and need. Their sounds, filthy-wet and rhythmic, gasping and ragged moans, filled the room until Quentin’s senses were filled with it, until it reverberated within him. 

With each movement, each push inside, each graze of friction over his cock, Quentin drew closer to the edge, crying out and digging his fingernails into the muscles of Eliot’s back. “El, I’m going to— _oh_ —”

Eliot let out a long groan, fucking into him rapidly, and Quentin’s spine felt like it was melting into the bed, pressure building in his hips, between his legs, his cock swollen and sensitive and pressed tight between their bodies. “Come on, Q—come for me, baby—you’re so—so good for me—you take it so well—” 

Eliot leaned down and bit lightly at Quentin’s shoulder, his tongue darting out over his sweat-slicked, overheated skin. Quentin’s brain and body fell over the edge in that moment, and the tightened, coiled thing inside of him began to unspool, slowly at first, then like lightning gathering and crackling, scorching the earth and leaving only fire in its wake. 

“Oh, Eliot—oh _fuck_ —” He came with a punched-out shout, salty warmth pooling between them, slippery and hot. Quentin was adrift, floating through sparking bliss, boneless and overworked, letting out helpless little sounds as Eliot fucked into him harder.

Eliot sped up, artless now, and he let out a deep, guttural noise, eyes shut tight, his hand pressed hard against Quentin’s neck. Eliot reached out and grabbed Quentin’s hand, grasping it, fingers tangled together. Biting his lip and staring down into Quentin’s eyes, Eliot pushed into Quentin hard, bucking hard. “So pretty, baby—God, you—you’re so beautiful—I’m—”

Quentin’s body was limp and sensitive. Each drive into his body gave him the sensation of splitting in two, the glittering force of it rolling up and down his spine as he moaned continuously, unaware and disconnected from the sounds he was making. He held on, taking him, taking everything he could give.

Eliot slowed, gentler now, panting and kissing him tenderly. “You okay, baby?”

Quentin nodded slowly, languorous, savoring each snap of Eliot’s hips. “Yeah,” he said absently. He brought Eliot down close and pressed their lips together, tongues meeting as Eliot fucked into him, slower now, so _slow_. 

“So close,” Eliot murmured, moving his lips to Quentin’s ear. “Just wanna be inside you all day, fill you up and—do it again.” Eliot pressed his lips to Quentin’s shoulder, rocking into him, languorous and drawn-out, each movement vibrating through him, sending glittering thrills through his limbs. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Quentin couldn’t fathom how Eliot was stringing together sentences right now. He just gave a hum of ascent and nodded, a little wildly, because yes, he’d fucking like that very much, thank you. He didn’t know—he had to do something today but—

“Oh—oh—” Quentin couldn’t help the sounds he was making every time Eliot moved inside of him. His mind couldn’t hold onto conscious thought. He was adrift, awash, surrounded, senses heightened and focused only on Eliot.

Eliot groaned, his hips still pushing forward into Quentin. “I’m gonna—gonna come inside you, baby—” He thrust forward, hard, again and again, animalistic, making the whole of Quentin’s body sparkling and raw. Quentin felt the warmth fill him on Eliot’s last, jolting movement, his hips stuttering and bottoming out deep inside Quentin. Eliot moaned and shook, finally letting go.

Eliot fell into Quentin, holding both of his hands tight, lips locked with his, kissing and licking into him endlessly as they closed their eyes together, breathless and living in the afterglow, not yet ready for the inevitable separation. He could feel Eliot’s hot breath against his neck, as he laughed and moved his tongue Quentin’s flushed skin. Eliot rolled them on their sides and slipped his hand around the back of Quentin’s neck, covering Quentin’s mouth with his again and kissing him deep and slow until he was breathless. 

It was Monday. It was Monday, right? Monday. 

No classes but—

Oh _fuck_. He did have a meeting with his fucking advisor. At some time or other.

Eliot threw a leg over Quentin’s, wrapping him into his body. He moved his hands again in one of those complicated motions, palms facing each other with pinkies cocked up and a final quick downward motion. They were instantly clean and dry. Eliot smiled, and Quentin’s heart leapt. It was stupid thing, really. Magic—and Fillory—hadn’t been kind to Eliot. His magic was a side effect of the twisted journey that had landed him here, confused and hurt and nearly dead. But, holy fuck, did Quentin think it was _hot_. He wondered if his other self had liked this thing about Eliot, even after he found out about magic being real. 

“I can teach you that one. It’s a good one to start with.”

“Yeah?” Quentin raised his eyebrows. “What if—what if I can’t do it?”

“I… I don’t know. We should just try. Don’t you think?”

“Mm, yeah. Okay. Not—now?” Quentin swallowed against the pit of anxiety inside of him. 

“Later, then,” Eliot said. He stroked Quentin’s hair.

“Oh, um. I was going to ask—I meant to ask. You said your discipline is telekinesis. I guess ‘was’ since there’s no Brakebills here.” 

Eliot tightened his grip around Quentin’s shoulder. “Yeah.”

“And I was wondering—what was mine?”

Eliot took a deep breath in and let it out through his nose, slow and steady. “You were undetermined until the—well, for a long time. You found out it was repair of small objects—minor mendings. Making things whole.”

“I’ve always been good at stuff like that,” Quentin said absently. “My mom told me I broke things, but my dad told me that he didn’t see it that way. He’s, um, never seen me that way, I don’t think. We’ve built a lot of models together.” Quentin’s voice caught. “Not that either of them paid me a lot of attention. But, my dad… he’s done his best.”

Eliot stared up at the ceiling like he’d gone somewhere far away. He let out a long sigh. “Your dad is sick here, too?”

“Yeah. Um.” Quentin bit at his lip. “I don’t know how to feel about you knowing that. I didn’t tell you, did I?”

“No. You didn’t. But I know.” He ran his fingers, tender and slow, over Quentin’s forearm. Warmth and tenderness spread through him as Eliot touched him, collecting inside of him. 

“Good, I, um. I won’t ask details about, like, the future. He’s in a trial and it could give him a few more months or a year, even. So. I don’t know. I guess I shouldn’t ask more about, like, the future of anything. But it’s hard not to. I don’t know. Is it the same future?”

Eliot brought Quentin into his arms, embracing him, pressing his nose into Quentin’s cheek. “I don’t know, either. I don’t think there’s a guidebook on the ins and outs of time magic.” Eliot took a deep breath, like he was trying to steady himself. “And some of my… memories, or whatever they are… they’re complicated.”

“I gathered,” Quentin said mildly. “It’s okay. I get enough, like, runoff from your memories—this is weird—”

“Oh, yeah. It’s really fucking weird. No question.” Eliot smoothed Quentin’s hair again, trailing his fingers over Quentin’s neck, down his shoulder. 

“Um, yeah. I, like, know that your life during that time was… difficult.”

“That’s one way to put it. ‘Absolutely batshit insane’ sounds more accurate. But there were a lot of good things. You were one of the best things.”

“We weren’t really together,” Quentin said, his cheek pressed against Eliot’s. He knew he should prep for his meeting with his advisor, but he’d have to move to do that. He’d have to untangle himself from Eliot, and that seemed unthinkable at the moment.

Eliot was quiet for a moment, breathing slow and heavy. After a while, he pulled back a little so that he and Quentin were eye to eye. “No. I fucked that up in a rather spectacular way.” 

Quentin brought his hand to the side of Eliot’s face. “There’s a place—or a time—where we were—right? I feel it. But it’s harder to read than, like, everything else.”

“Mm, yeah. That’s complicated, too. But yes.” Eliot’s mouth drew to a thin line, his eyes far away. “There was a quest—a timeline. We were… together there for a really long time. We died there. And then—well, we came back. Or we never went—Margo stopped us from going. But we remembered pieces of it.” Eliot’s voice cracked, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “Beautiful pieces. And I—I let you down. After that—and you—”

“Hey,” Quentin said, swallowing hard, thoroughly confused. His pulse picked up, that anxious-strange feeling filling his chest. “It’s okay. You found me. I’m here.” 

It must have been the right thing to say, even if Quentin didn’t know exactly what the fuck he was talking about. Eliot buried his face in Quentin’s shoulder. Eliot was right. There was no way to navigate this, no guide in the world to tell them how much to share, what they should let go, and what they needed to keep. And no one could tell either of them what would happen here if they continued as they had started, falling into each other’s arms and refusing to let go. No one could tell him what would happen if he didn’t live up to the Quentin Eliot had known before; what would happen if he wasn’t the same person. So many things between them felt true and unshakeable—others felt unreasonably murky. 

“I know this is a lot. If this is too much for you,” Eliot whispered, his voice still hoarse, “you can—”

“I can what?” He could feel the beat of Eliot’s heart against his skin.

“You don’t have any obligation to me.” Eliot pulled away, almost imperceptibly, like he half-expected Quentin to pick up and run out.

“So, um, I should waltz off and forget all of this? Don’t be stupid,” Quentin mumbled, pressing his mouth to Eliot’s jaw and slipping his hand around the back of his neck.

Eliot made a low, broken sound and tipped Quentin’s head up. Everything went quiet in Quentin’s buzzing mind as Eliot kissed him, slow and soft and deep. The churning worry inside of him dwindled down to nothing, leaving him with the safety and warmth he felt in Eliot’s arms, a sensation both startlingly new and familiar as his old, worn paperbacks. His stubble pricked against Quentin’s skin, grounding him in his body, in this moment, in the reality of Eliot’s embrace. His awareness of his own thoughts faded out, and he melted into Eliot, hoping to catch only their most beautiful memories and keep them safe, so that he might help Eliot only remember the best things, so that Eliot might never feel hurt or broken, so that he might never believe he’d done something in a distant world to merit Quentin’s disdain. These were impossible thoughts, but Quentin let himself dissolve into them; for anything felt possible in Eliot’s arms. The murky things became clear, and anxieties waned.

When Quentin finally disentangled himself an hour or so later, he was aware of just how bone tired he was. He didn’t have his laptop or the materials he needed for his meeting, and he was disheveled in a not-so-sexy way, wearing the sweater Eliot had forbade him from keeping in his wardrobe. He pulled his hair back and silently accepted that he was going to be late to his meeting, knowing that it was well worth it. When he was at the door, he had that familiar little jump in his gut, the one that told him this wasn’t real, that it was too good to be true, that he must have hallucinated all of it. But Eliot came and kissed him, warm lips pressed to his, a hand at the back of his neck, thumb brushing over his jaw.

“Tomorrow night?” Eliot said between kisses.

Quentin nodded. “Yeah.” 

How could he refuse?

***

Quentin’s meeting with his advisor went about as well as he’d expected—not great, not horrible. His advisor had gotten his name right, but Quentin suspected it was because he’d pulled up Quentin’s file. Really, Quentin wasn’t terribly focused on his first year project. For once, Fillory—which was fucking _real_ , by the way—didn’t seem to hold his interest like usual. Instead, he was thinking of Eliot—how he held Quentin like he was something precious, something he’d wanted so desperately for so long. He was thinking of the way Eliot kissed him, his face and his neck, over his shoulders, leaving no spot on him untouched. He’d never felt adored before, not in any of the few relationships he’d had. He wondered if this was how it was supposed to feel, or if this was something beyond, something more than he ever could have imagined. 

His advisor had to refocus the conversation more than once. ( _Quentin, are you with me? You were talking about portals in children’s fantasy literature. And then you just stopped and stared into space._ ). Whatever. If his advisor had just gotten dicked down by Eliot Waugh, he’d be staring into space, too. Anyone would. Fuck.

Quentin ambled back to his apartment, hands shoved in his pockets, his ratty messenger bag tapping against his leg. It was warm for March, and he was getting hot. At the base of the stairs that led up to his and Penny’s apartment, he put his bag on the ground, and attempted to pull his sweater off, getting it stuck on his head. Fucking great. _And_ there was someone on the steps. With his fucking luck, it would definitely be Penny. But when he pulled the sweater off and threw it down, silently cursing himself for even buying the goddamn thing, he was face to face with Alice Quinn; ex-girlfriend, paragon of academic excellence and biting commentary on Quentin’s shortcomings. 

“Um, hey. Alice. What are you doing—I mean. It’s nice to see you?”

She gave him a tight smile, raising her chin a little. “Like I said, I have something important to talk about.”

“Couldn’t have we—I don’t know—actually set up a time to do that? Like, we agreed not to see each other.” Quentin crossed his arms, defensive. After all, _she_ was the one who suggested that they ‘keep their distance.’

“Well.” Alice swallowed hard, and she flung her hair back over her shoulder in that haughty way she had. “It seems like you’ve moved on. Rapidly.”

Quentin sighed. “Yeah. I’m seeing someone. Like people do. In, um, life. What’s this about, Alice?”

Her eyes darted back and forth. “Can we go somewhere?”

“Like my living room?”

“Yeah. That would be fine. I suppose. Is your roommate home?”

“I have no clue. I wasn’t here last night.” Maybe it was spiteful to add that last bit of information. Quentin didn’t especially care. It was the truth.

Alice’s cheeks turned pink. “Okay. Well.” She gestured with her head to the stairs. 

Quentin sighed and followed her up, annoyed that he wouldn’t be able to fall in bed immediately and make up for the sleep he’d lost due to ‘getting the Alice Quinn fucked right out of him,’ as Margo had put it. He had half a mind to grumble at her some more, but there wasn’t any point to it. It would just end up with both of them pissed off and pointlessly bitching at each other. 

“Looks like Penny has class,” Quentin said, ushering Alice to the couch. “Do you need—like—water or anything?”

“No—I’m fine.” Her eyes were doing that darting thing again, and she had her hands clasped together so hard that her knuckles were white.

Quentin sat down on the couch, leaving one cushion separating them. Afternoon light was filtering in through the windows, hitting the couch and illuminating the pained expression on Alice’s face. She was so often self-contained and closed off, but right now, she was rattled, shaken to her core. This was major. Something prickled in his chest to see her like this. She wouldn’t have broken her own rule of staying away from Quentin if there wasn’t something major going on. The angry, hurt parts of Quentin wanted to tell her to go, just get away. But he had cared for her. He still did. 

“What’s going on?” He looked over at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

She laughed, a little breathy thing. “This is going to sound crazy. You’re going to think I’m insane.”

“Try me. I’ve had a… a kinda weird week.”

She cut her eyes over at him, slouching over now, her body coiled tight on itself. “So. This _thing_ has been happening. And the more I try not to think about it, the more it keeps happening.”

Quentin’s stomach twisted in a tight knot. He cracked his knuckles and let out a deep breath. “So. Alice. Tell me what the, um, the thing is.”

Alice gave him a quick look, something dark passing over her features that sent a chill down Quentin’s spine. “Promise you won’t tell anyone else. Or freak out.”

Quentin through his hands up. “Fuck it, Alice. I think I know what you’re going to say—”

“I really think you don’t.”

“I really think I do, but go for it.” He shrugged, waiting. The universe, he thought, really wasn’t fucking fair. Fucking Alice. 

Alice raised an eyebrow at him, going completely still. She put her hand up to the beam of light coming in from the window outside and grasped it with her fingers like it was tangible. When she moved her hand _just so_ , the ray of light bent, like it had hit a reflective surface. The light pooled on the floor in front of Alice’s feet, illuminating the soft brown boots she was wearing, showing each scuff, each wrinkle in the worn leather. She quickly put her hand down, hiding it beneath her other arm, like she was embarrassed. He could see the emotions warring on her face—she was Alice, so of course, she was pretty fucking pleased with herself. She was also a true scientist, studying biochemistry now, so she knew this couldn’t be _real_. So while she was… curious, at the least, it was clear she also thought she was going the fuck insane. 

Quentin gave her a weak smile. “That’s pretty fucking cool, Alice.”

“You saw it?”

Quentin nodded, drawing his lips to a thin line. “I saw it. It was pretty impressive.”

“And you’re not freaking out?”

“No. I’m not.” Quentin felt like groaning and sinking into the couch forever because he was _jealous_ that she could do magic and he couldn’t, but that wasn’t something he really needed to mention to his ex-girlfriend. He hadn’t actually tried, though, had he? He shoved the nagging voice down. He’d try. And then—what if he couldn’t? What happened after that?

“It’s freaking me out that you’re not freaking out,” she said, a slightly hysterical edge to her voice. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”

Quentin wiped his hand over his face and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling out his bun and redoing it. “I’m just… like I said. It’s been a weird week. The guy I met… um. We’re dating? I don’t know. We—he—”

“What does he have to do with anything?” Alice’s cheeks were pink. She was nearly shouting now.

“He can do—fuck. He can do—fucking—magic. He’s a… a magician.” Quentin chewed on his lip. He and Eliot hadn’t exactly talked about who should and shouldn’t know about his magical abilities. Was now a good time to tell her that he was from another world? Or part of his consciousness was? Or? He didn’t know what the fuck to say, so probably not. 

“He can do the same thing?” Her eyes grew wide. “With light?”

“No. He can’t do your, like, light bendy thing. Or I haven’t seen him do it. He does physical magic. Um, like, telekinesis. Lifting things. Moving them around.” And a whole bunch of sex things. Quentin didn’t mention that. “Oh. And a hangover spell. Like to take away your headache.”

Alice blanched, and her hands were shaking a little. She gripped them together. “How does he—how—”

“It’s a long story. He probably needs to tell it. Or I need to ask him if I can, I think? That would probably be, um, prudent. Given that it’s, um, not a thing everyone can do. And maybe it’s sensitive? Like other people shouldn’t know? I don’t know. This is all really… new. And maybe related? And—but—I don’t know if he—wants to—” Quentin swallowed hard. He’d really rather not have to deal with Alice. Alice and Eliot in the same room. Something in that scenario made his gut twist into knots. Shit. 

“Can you… can you ask him if he’d—wait, who the hell is this guy? And since when are you dating guys?”

Quentin pulled back. “You know I dated another guy before. This is not, like, big news, Alice.”

“Is that the reason we broke up?”

_Jesus Christ._

“Um, no. We broke up because our, you know, whole relationship wasn’t working. Not because my sexuality, like, changed. It never changed. You know what? That’s not part of this conversation.” He slapped his hands down on his thighs and stood up, anxiety roiling beneath his skin. He stood and started pacing slowly in front of the couch. 

“Okay,” Alice said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, “so your boyfriend—”

“Um—” He flinched. There wasn’t a word for what they were, not one that described anything like, accurately. Quentin fussed with his hair, pulling out his elastic and redoing it as he paced. 

“If he could talk to me—” 

Quentin stopped and met her eyes. They’d been friends in the end, Eliot had said. He and Alice. Whatever that meant. It didn’t mean anything _great_. It was foreboding as shit. “I’m not sure that’s, like, a fantastic idea. But I—I, I can talk to him?”

“Oh.” Alice’s hands were still trembling, and she started to stand up, putting her purse over her arm. 

“Alice, wait. Look. It’s complicated. I’ll text him.” 

She sat back down on the couch. Her eyes still had that nervous-afraid quality, but there was hunger there, too. Alice had always wanted to know _more_ about everything. She worried at things, not in the same way Quentin did. Quentin’s mind was reckless—it threw solutions at problems, searching around in the void for connections and probabilities and forcing them together until they made sense. Alice was a great consumer of information in much the same way, but she was meticulous and calculating. She could already see how much there was to learn, what kind of doors this could open. Between her and Julia, Eliot was going to have to deal with a lot of fucking questions if they pinned him down. And in Quentin’s admittedly overprotective opinion, Eliot had been through enough. And he’d rather not have to share. With his _ex-girlfriend_.

“Okay. Thank you. It started happening about—”

“A week or so ago?” Quentin looked at her and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Fuck. “Yeah, that’s when things got weird for—” He swallowed hard. He almost didn’t want to say his name. “—Eliot.”

She watched him, her eyes cool and blue and unreadable. “When did you—how did you guys meet?”

“Through Margo. At the coffee shop. Last week.”

“And now you’re a thing?” 

Quentin made an exasperated noise and cracked his knuckles again. “Yeah, now we’re a thing. It’s complicated.”

“You already used that word.”

“It’s a—uh—suitable fucking word.” He sighed and stumbled back toward the sofa, tucking his legs beneath him. God, he could still feel Eliot’s touch on his skin. He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll text him if you promise not to be—”

“Not to be what? He hasn’t agreed to talk to me.” 

“He will. I just. Don’t be—” A dick. “—unkind.”

“I’m not unkind,” she said. She tilted her head like she didn’t even understand the word. 

“Okay. No, you’re not. Fine.” She just didn’t function on a normal human frequency, that’s what.

Quentin tapped at his phone. Fuck. What was he supposed to say? My ex-girlfriend, who is probably also my ex-girlfriend where half of your consciousness came from, wants to endlessly pick your brain about her new superpowers? Goddammit. When did Quentin’s life get so complicated? He’d been angling to sleep with Eliot, which seemed uncomplicated… at first. He was definitely getting laid, and it was legitimately the best sex Quentin had ever had in his life. But he was also dealing with like, the world’s most complicated relationship issues after… one week. He guessed guys like Eliot didn’t really do _easy_ , but this was… well, this was something else altogether. _Fuck._ It was relevant—wasn’t it? To Eliot’s whole current magic-having situation. And the fucking coven at the bar, or whatever the fuck they called themselves.

**Quentin** : Alice has magic. She’d like to talk to you.   
**Quentin** : she is very much my ex-girlfriend  
 **Quentin** : just FYI  
 **Quentin** : She just showed up here and bent light

He threw his phone down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. “There. I did it.”

He could feel the questions forming in Alice’s brain. He’d intended to come home and take a really long nap and think about Eliot. By himself. Alone. And then—this. 

“Look, Q, I’m sorry—I didn’t know who else to talk to. You care about this stuff. Magic and… otherworldly things. I guess. I thought you might know something. Or at least not think I’m crazy.” 

“You’re not crazy,” he said, letting out a soft laugh. “It’s real. It’s just—I don’t know anything about it. I don’t think Eliot does either. Not about how it works here. Or why it does. He might know someone who does. I don’t know. He’s been through a lot.” Understatement. He just wanted Eliot to be okay—safe, content, unburdened. But this wasn’t exactly something he could keep hidden, and he couldn’t leave Alice to deal with it on her own. 

His phone buzzed. 

**Eliot** : that’s interesting

Fuck. “God.” He watched the screen. Eliot was typing. 

“You like him, huh?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, sighing, pulling his phone case off and putting it back on, then doing it again. “I really do.”

“That’s—just great. Really. And he can do magic.” She smiled weakly at him. “I’m sure that’s… really fun.”

What the fuck, Alice? Quentin laughed, pressing his hands to his face. Yeah, this was just getting fucking weirder by the moment. It was making him slightly hysterical. “Yeah,” he said, still laughing, “He can do magic.”

His phone buzzed again. 

**Eliot** : I’m not surprised. I’ll talk to her. At the bar. Wednesday night? Tell her not to let anyone see her. She can’t talk to anyone.

He handed the phone to Alice, something inside of him deflating a little. He wasn’t sure if it was a positive or negative deflation, but it was something, at least—something other than the rampant tension inhabiting him like a hamster on an endlessly spinning wheel. 

“Oh, okay. Sure,” Alice said, quiet. “I can do that, I think. That makes sense. I mean. You’ll come, too?”

“Yeah, sure. I will.”

His phone buzzed again in Alice’s hand, and all the breath went out of Quentin. 

“Oh,” she said, a little surprised. “He says to give me his number. And um.” She handed him his phone. 

**Eliot** : Give her my number. Come over again tonight. Don’t wait til tmw

Quentin felt the blush creeping over his cheeks. That was probably something that an ex-girlfriend really didn’t need to see. But maybe Alice didn’t care? He flicked his eyes over at her, and she was now actually gathering her things to go, looking mortified. 

“Thanks. For everything.” She stood in front of the couch, not looking at him when she said it.

“Yeah, uh. No problem. I’ll see you Wednesday night, I guess.”

Right as Alice walked to the door, there was a shift in the air, and Penny appeared in the center of the living room. He was soaking wet. Alice slowly turned, her eyes huge.

Penny raised his hands in exasperation. “I just missed my fucking exam. The fuck?”

“Goddammit,” Quentin said. He groaned and picked up his phone. 

**Quentin** : Penny’s coming too.   
**Eliot** : fantastic  
 **Quentin** : see you tonight

Quentin tucked his phone in his pocket and made a beeline for his bedroom, leaving a soaking wet Penny and his apparently magical ex-girlfriend staring at each other. His heart was pounding hard, the walls starting to close in around him. He slammed the door and locked it behind him. He laid down on his bed, put on his headphones, and closed his eyes, swallowing hard and trying to control the shaking sensation deep in the core of him. He’d somehow become a home for magic miscreants, and it was not the grand old time fourteen-year-old Quentin had imagined. 

Yeah, Eliot was great. But. The rest of it was—well, _fuck_.

He didn’t want a truckload of magical complications. Really, at the core of it all, he just wanted Eliot.


	23. I Would Do Most Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is very vulnerable in this world. I'm thinking on his character as a mashup of his three different selves, and how would that affect someone who's twenty-six? What changes would we see? 
> 
> We're also seeing Margo and Quentin react to him, this much more sincere Eliot.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Boys Don't Cry:
> 
> I would do most anything  
> To get you back by my side  
> But I just keep on laughing  
> Hiding the tears in my eyes  
> Cause boys don't cry
> 
> There's some smut because I decided there would be. Fucking happy quarantine, everyone. All my chapters will have dicks. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to HALE APPLEMAN. I talked to him for four minutes at 2AM EST on Sunday, and he was very kind even though I was a goddamn basketcase, semi-high on cough medicine, and had no idea how to put two words together. Donate to Queer CoVid relief! Check out @notalonehere on Twitter for more info on the fanworks auction going on right now! 
> 
> First part of my conversation with Hale:
> 
> Me: Hi, I'm Hoko.  
> Him: [very quietly] I'm Hale.  
> Me: [Internally screaming.]
> 
> That's how tired he was, gentlefolks. Here's my longest chapter yet.

~Eliot~

Since Eliot had moved to New York at the age of seventeen, he hadn’t thought much about his place in the world or the type of life he wanted. That’s the thing about escaping and starting over. After actually making that leap, life became a moment-to-moment thing. Each day as it comes, and all that. Or, more specifically, when Eliot’s father had broken his arm and left the rest of his body bruised and bloody when he found Eliot’s makeup stash, Eliot had stopped assuming he’d live to see twenty, let alone twenty-six. He had never thought much beyond than the day ahead of him. Planning for a happy, fulfilling life was a luxury afforded to people whose parents loved them, people who felt safe in public, people whose first serious boyfriends never attacked or abused them. People who weren’t Eliot.

So, Eliot had shut off that part of his brain. If he was going to survive, he figured, he’d be doing it with _carpe diem_ panache, unbridled hedonism, reckless thrill-seeking, casual sex, high fashion, and fabulous cocktails. Yes, he did have that vague dream of a regal penthouse in Tribeca (with a rich husband who traveled excessively and allowed him to indulge every carnal desire that crossed his mind), but it was just that. A nothing-dream. Fashion school was a thing to do after acting school had failed. He excelled at design when he put his mind to it, but graduate school was more a way to delay the drudgery of adulthood and less an actual _plan_. On all the online personality tests Eliot had taken, it was clear that thinking any further than the present moment was his least developed attribute. Historically, he was totally fine with that.

Well. Until the past week. Nine days ago, give or take an hour, Eliot had woken up imbued with the memories of not one, but two, Real Adult versions of himself. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure he considered the version who had decided to launch himself into a whole new timeline a _functional_ adult. Maybe a functional alcoholic who had fallen into gainful employment as an alternative to say, living on the street. The more he looked into his memories and analyzed them, the more he realized how his grief had affected him. He knew he’d had friendships in that Brakebills professor life, most importantly with Margo and her family, but Quentin’s death had broken him in a fundamental way. It had to do with that other life, the hazy-lovely-unreal one, the one where he had grown and changed and really, truly lived with Q. In that life—in the Fillory of a century ago—he had eventually shed the injustices and insecurities of the past. It had taken a long time, well into his thirties, to let Quentin love him, to love himself. When Q had died to save him, he lost every stride he’d made. Maybe he’d hung on too hard to that shadow-life, the life they’d lived at the mosaic. But it was part of him, written as deeply in his DNA as magic. And with Quentin’s death, the hope for that kind of contentment had also died. 

It was hard to parse what gaining all of those memories had done to twenty-six year old fashion-school New Yorker Eliot. But he knew this for sure—his future now seemed like an open banquet, all of it possible. He had the added perspective of a much older man, one who had lived and died. The influx of memories certainly hadn’t quelled the plethora of insecurities he hid beneath his waistcoat-and-tie veneer, but he now knew he _could_ live beyond his twenties; he could even build a life with someone he loved. Despite the many mistakes his older selves had made, they had lived, carved out places in the world around them. This was an intentional restart. He had magic. And Quentin. Whether or not Quentin would _stay_ given the insane circumstances remained to be seen… but it was _possible._ Wasn’t it?

He’d been in love with Quentin in every timeline—almost from the start, if he was being honest. Perhaps it wasn’t from the first day he’d seen Quentin stumbling across the Sea at Brakebills, but that love had crept up on him in the year following. He just hadn’t spoken its name; he hadn’t been brave enough. And he’d understood all of those feelings from the second he’d first kissed Quentin here, in this timeline. Quentin was worth the trouble. He was worth the hard reset.

(The baker’s dozen other magicians he was now responsible for—well. He wasn’t so sure about taking care of all of them. But he was pretty sure he was stuck with that lot in life, at least for right now.) 

And Quentin, well. Quentin wasn’t so sure about those extra magicians either, which made Eliot really fucking nervous. That’s why there had been a goddamn school in the other universe. There had been an administration. And teachers. And a library full of history and research and carefully studied enchantments and circumstances. There were magical tools and warded rooms and procedures to follow in the event of magical emergencies. Eliot didn’t care much for any of it when he was a student. And he cared even less for it when he was a professor. But he was beginning to see the appeal. 

Now, in particular, while he was holding a very tired boy who’d had to ‘babysit Penny through a magical crisis’ after Alice had scurried out of his apartment, he saw the appeal of a big university with walkways and books and classrooms and dorms and people in charge who weren’t him. He held an arm around Quentin while they watched the first season of ‘The Good Place’ while Q alternately rambled about Alice and Penny and their ability to do magic and the ins and outs of moral philosophy, which was a whole _thing_ on the show. Quentin was saying… something. But Eliot was tired, and his mind was wandering, and he was half-focused on ‘The Good Place,’ and half-focused on Quentin’s hair. And another half was thinking about Q and magic and what the fuck they were going to do.

“Hm? You were talking about philosophy. I tuned out. I was watching this Dress Bitch scene play out,” Eliot said. God, Kristen Bell. She had amazing cheekbones. She looked like a porcelain doll. And she was in her late thirties. It was absurd. Watching her, he could sink into his sort of half-conscious thoughts about Quentin and magic and his life at Brakebills, tuning in every now and again when she did something particularly amazing.

“That tracks,” Quentin said.

“Hey, I love this show. It actually had a great final season. I appreciate how everything wrapped up really nicely, not like shitty and half-assed. And I generally can’t pay attention to anything that’s not reality TV. Sorry not sorry.” Eliot lifted a piece of Quentin’s hair and let it fall. Yes, he’d come here for exactly this, something normal and whole and fulfilling. His stomach twisted at the thought that there was still work required, that none of this would be perfectly easy. It wasn’t something his older self had really thought about. Which made a certain amount of sense, given who Eliot was. Still, he’d pull that dick aside in a room and yell at him if he could, regardless of how fucking wonderful it was to be here, to have Quentin’s space-heater warmth next to him.

“I haven’t seen season four yet.” Quentin yawned and pressed his head back against Eliot’s shoulder. He felt so good there, so right. His skin tingled at every point where Quentin touched him. “No spoilers.”

“That analysis contained exactly zero spoilers. I love this show. Just not moral philosophy. Whatever the fuck that is.” He knew _what it was_ and the role it played on the show, but fuck if he was going to admit that to Quentin. It was too fun to play dumb and pretty, especially when it frustrated Quentin so thoroughly. 

“You’re such an Eleanor,” Quentin mumbled. 

“Why, thank you,” he said, smiling and placing a kiss on Quentin’s forehead. “Big compliment.”

Quentin laughed. “Yeah. I like, um. Her character. The show. It’s intelligent, you know? Challenging.”

_So eloquent_.

“You would like a sitcom because it’s _challenging_ ,” Eliot said. Q sure as fuck would like something just because it’s intellectually _rigorous_. That was consistent in any world.

“Why do _you_ like it?”

“I just told you. Good story. All the actors are hot. Even Ted Danson.” He paused. “Especially Ted Danson. And it’s romantic, isn’t it?”

Quentin snorted. “You’re secretly very romantic.”

“Nothing secret about it.” He swallowed hard; hadn’t he been obvious? Or was Quentin utterly oblivious? Probably that second one. His heart felt a little fluttery. “Haven’t I been wooing you well?”

He felt Quentin rolling his eyes. “Too well. Now you’ll never be able to get rid of me.” He said it simply, like that was just a thing people said. He gave Eliot a look, a little nervous after the fact. There was part of Eliot’s hindbrain that wanted to flinch away from the intimacy that Quentin fell into so naturally, but the better part of him felt warm and whole when he thought of Quentin _staying_. He’d fucked up so grandly in his other life, doubting Quentin’s devotion. He was certain he’d keep fucking up again and again. That was life, wasn’t it?

He reached for Quentin’s hand and laced their fingers together, holding on tight. “Good,” he said. 

When he looked down, he saw a blush forming on Quentin’s cheeks. He looked up at Eliot, wide-eyed and earnest. “El. Eliot—I—”

“What is it?” 

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Tell me.” He remembered the expression on Q’s face if he thought about it hard enough—he was catastrophizing, imagining the worst and keeping it bottled up, despite all of his openness and vulnerability when it came to sharing the best things. It had taken a decade or more at the mosaic for Quentin to start responding to Eliot when he asked what Quentin was actually feeling. And it had taken Eliot that long to even try. He’d learned he had to pry, to fish those things out of Quentin. It was utterly fucking exhausting, and it had changed their relationship from tenuous and fraught to real and lasting. It was one way to keep the fucking up from becoming real destruction.

“What if I—” Quentin grumbled a little under his breath, like he was searching for words. 

“What if you what?”

“What if I can’t do magic?” Quentin bit at his lip. It’s a wonder he hadn’t chewed it off after giving it twenty-five years of hell. 

“What if you can?”

Quentin considered this, thoughtful and quiet as Kristen Bell donned her Dress Bitch shirt. It wasn’t, perhaps, the best background noise for serious conversations, but it was what it was. “I don’t know. I guess I’m scared to try. Alice can—she can cast. She just knows it by instinct.”

Eliot drew in a breath. “Yeah, she’s a—or she was a—really skilled magician. When I knew her. She understood the inner workings of magic, and parts of it came so naturally to her. Other things she learned… well, she studied more than the rest of us combined. Except for Julia, maybe.”

Quentin let out a sharp breath. “That doesn’t surprise me. That’s how Alice is. How Julia is. Really. They’re a lot alike in some ways.”

“Yeah? It’s odd that—odd that they’re the same people here. I guess all of it is odd.”

“And Margo?”

“It’s like someone took my Margo and dropped her right into this universe. Right down to the incredibly creative language use.” That piercing feeling hit him in the chest again, a part of him that yearned and wanted, needed to fix things and keep fixing them. Margo was one of those things.

“She’s, um, one of a kind.”

Eliot smiled, a little sad. She was the same, but she wasn’t. He’d gone and fucked that up in this timeline when they were supposed to be family—more than family. “Yeah. She was more of a natural talent. But scary smart about magic. Always followed her instincts.”

“What about me?” Quentin asked, voice quiet. 

“You… didn’t think much of yourself. You studied hard and… worried at things until you got them. You’d want to figure something out, and you wouldn’t let go until you figured out how to do it. You hated that… that you didn’t get your discipline when everyone else in your year did. You didn’t find out until—until I got possessed. You found out when you were trying to find a way to save me. Alice told me later. After you were gone. And we’d always known—all of us—how skilled you were when it came to mending things. You were brave. You made the rest of us brave.”

“Why did Alice have to tell you?” Quentin was still looking up at Eliot, his lip pursed. He knew Q had probably gone over all the things Eliot had told him a thousand times in his head, trying to separate all the pieces and make sense of them. 

“You were gone,” Eliot said, his voice low and soft. “When I woke up after you and Margo had—had saved me, she told me that you’d died. You went to this place between worlds and people shouldn’t—you can’t cast—” He took in a deep, shaky breath, tears stinging his eyes, the grief ever-present in his chest even as he held Quentin and felt the reality of his living body. It always felt like a surprise when he sank into it, swelling and surging, overtaking his body and mind, bringing him back to that place and time. “You can’t cast in there. But you did. To prevent someone evil from controlling magic. And you died. You were—really—a great magician.” Eliot swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears, but they were coming now, hot trails over his skin. 

“I’m here now, El.” It was the same thing he’d said before. Something crumbled a little inside of Eliot, like a small barrier breaking. 

The place beneath that broken thing was raw and new, the pain exquisite and constant as he wept, tears falling into Quentin’s hair. “I know,” he said. It was all he could manage. 

“I’m sorry I—”

“No. You saved me. You saved all of us.”

“Was there any other way?” Quentin’s voice sounded small. 

“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I was hurt. Badly. In a coma for four days, in the infirmary for weeks afterward. I only know it secondhand. And I couldn’t—I didn’t ask about you. Not after Alice talked to me. I didn’t want to know any more than I did. We were all so stupid and fragile, and no one would talk about losing you.” He wiped tears from his eyes with the base of his palm. 

Quentin squeezed Eliot’s hand, but he didn’t say anything. The color had drained from his face. 

“I lost you. I couldn’t get past it. I never did. People are supposed to get past things. I just… didn’t. Couldn’t. That’s why I’m here. I don’t care—” He paused, sighing. “I don’t care if you can do magic. I don’t care if you ditch every other magician in Manhattan. I just want you. I didn’t come here to watch you do magic. I know—when I look back at everything—I just came back here for you. The person you are right now. I don’t expect anything—like I said. I just—I’m glad you’re giving me a shot, even though my reason for being here is completely—completely fucking selfish. So that’s what happens if you can’t do magic. I’ll keep asking you to stay. And I’ll keep trying to be better and—that’s what. That’s what happens if you can’t do magic.”

“Okay,” Quentin said. He cupped the side of Eliot’s face, letting his hand rest against Eliot’s tear-soaked cheek. Quentin leaned up and kissed him, chaste at first, a dry brush of his lips against Eliot’s. Even that feather-light touch sent sparks through Eliot’s core, lighting him from within and filling him with golden warmth as the kiss shifted in intent, growing deeper and more desperate, hungry. Quentin crawled onto his lap, straddling Eliot, just like the Quentin in his memories had done. They were just memories now, integrated as part of him, disturbingly vivid. He was holding three versions of himself, balancing them with one another, a delicate and difficult act. (But it was okay, he thought, if he could hold Quentin and kiss him like this, present and alive and hot against his skin.)

He pulled away from Quentin and held his gaze. “I have something we could try.”

“Is it a sex thing?” Quentin raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. “Surprisingly, no.”

“Hm,” Quentin mused, stroking his fingers over Eliot’s neck and sending a thrill down his spine, “sounds boring.”

“Definitely not boring.” He kissed Quentin again just for good measure before reaching over to the coffee table and grabbing a green ashtray he’d had since undergrad. He didn’t smoke inside anymore, so it was just there, a piece of the detritus that had faded into the background of his life. He lifted it easily with telekinesis and broke it in half midair with a slice of his fingers. He watched as a flush creeped over Quentin’s cheeks and the soft, pale skin of his throat. Using his magic was _not_ strictly necessary, but he really did enjoy the results. It turned Quentin on, so it really was _kind of_ a sex thing. Foreplay, anyway.

Quentin’s eyes were fixed on the broken ashtray as it twirled in the air, his pink lips parted. “That’s incredible—that’s just—so incredible that you can do that.”

“Here,” he said. He altered the hold of the magic so he could use both of his hands to show Quentin a short mending sequence, one that he’d taught to first years in that other world. He repeated the tuts a second time, this time placing his hand’s over Q’s to show him the correct positions. “Now, focus on the ashtray. See if you can look at it and feel it with your mind.”

“I don’t know if I—”

“Just try it. Focus on that and nothing else. Clear your mind and just focus. Take your time.” He lifted Quentin’s t-shirt with his free hand, absently touching Quentin’s side. 

Quentin stared at the ashtray as Eliot held it aloft, lazily using his magic to support it. “Okay,” Quentin said after a moment. “I’m focusing on it.”

“Now, go through the movements I taught you while you’re focused on it, while you’re feeling it. Magic is ambient. There’s a source somewhere in this world. It’s around us, everywhere. You have to draw on it to power the spell. See if you can feel it—”

“I don’t—I can’t—” Quentin stammered.

“You can. Just try it. I’ll keep holding it up, and when you do the tuts—”

“Tuts?”

“—the movements. It’ll shift over to you.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Quentin was still focused on the floating ashtray. Eliot spun it again, feeling the magic surge around both of them. 

“Then it’ll shatter on the floor, and I’ll throw the pieces away. And we’ll watch TV, and I’ll give you a glass of wine. And then, sex things.”

Quentin laughed a little, a short huff of air. He was still focused on the ashtray. “Okay, I’ll try.” 

Eliot watched as Quentin repeated the series of tuts, his movements precise, identical to what Eliot had shown him. The magic shifted; Eliot could taste the change, picking up on something new, something he hadn’t felt when doing his own magic before. It was definitely from Quentin, and Eliot’s heart double-thumped. Quentin’s eyes lit up, and his thighs tightened around Eliot as their currents of magic started to intertwine. As Q repeated the hand motions a second time, the pieces of the ashtray moved slowly toward each other, a gentle, controlled process. Quentin flicked his wrist, transitioning into a movement Eliot _hadn’t_ taught him, drawing on some instinct, taking the broken thing from Eliot’s string of magic and bringing its parts together. The ashtray was now whole, a hairline fracture along its underside. As Quentin’s hands moved in a final quick tut, the crack disappeared, and it floated gently down to the table. 

Quentin was panting, hands shaking. “I did that,” he said, breathless and shocked, in awe. “I _did_ that.”

Eliot lowered his mouth to Quentin’s pulse point, savoring the wild beating of his heart. He breathed out against Q’s skin, took in the scent of his magic, like rosemary and campfire smoke, felt it between them, a small, solid thing, so different from Eliot’s magic, which felt huge and wavering, yet insubstantial until Eliot channeled it. “I told you. You did that like a trained magician,” he said, stroking Quentin’s hair, loose over his shoulders. “It wasn’t a random surge of power. That’s what usually happens the first time. You mended this like you’d been doing it for years.” 

“I can’t—I don’t—I don’t believe it.” Eliot watched the emotions play over Quentin’s features. 

“Believe it,” he said. He pressed his lips to Quentin’s, moving a hand to the back of his head, running his fingers through the slip of his hair. _Fuck,_ his _hair_.

“I just can’t fucking believe it,” he murmured, his hands twitching a little like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. 

Eliot preened a bit, smiling at Quentin and kissing him lightly on the lips. He’d been the one to show him what he could do. He remembered Q telling him when they first met that he’d passed out after Dean Fogg had grabbed him and told him to ‘quit dicking around.’ Eliot had imagined it when Quentin, still shy and stuttering and slightly worshipful of Eliot and the entire campus and magic as a whole, told him about collapsing on the floor. Quentin had been fluttering with anxiety when he’d spoken to Eliot afterwards, half-awed and half-terrified that he’d never be able to do it again. And Eliot, who had been not so subtly trying to fuck him, had made him a drink and looked soulfully into his eyes and told him that he was absolutely a magician, that he could feel it. The whole speech was an act. He could feel no such thing. He just knew that Quentin radiated that restive, pinched anxiety-cum-innocence that Eliot couldn’t seem to get enough of, and he would have said anything that first week to make sure that Q kept coming by the physical kids’ cottage. Quentin had kept looking at Eliot like he was some god of magic, like he never thought he would have deserved to have a friend like him. 

And gosh, what a _good friend_ Eliot had been, with absolutely zero ulterior motive. It was good, so good, those first days after meeting Quentin. Eliot had felt this unique mix of protectiveness and fondness and the overwhelming urge to wipe the confused expression off Quentin’s face with a good dicking. It had all been so delicious, so intoxicating, just being near him for reasons he really could _not_ explain, even when Margo pushed him on it. The best part was drawing Q into his orbit, watching him as his eyes went wide when Eliot did even the simplest magic. 

This was better—not dissimilar, but so much more _worthwhile_. As he got to know Quentin this go around, as he _remembered_ him, the reasons for his affection shifted and fell through the waters of his mind like silt, settling quickly and forming the full picture of all that Eliot had to gain and everything he had lost. When Eliot had acquired a century’s worth of mixed memories over the course of a few days, it became increasingly difficult to maintain the artifice of his former self. Certainly, it was still there—the shell between him and the cruel world that had created him. It had been chipped, though. And he now understood the weight of magic, what it meant to Quentin, what it meant for the two of them together. 

And Eliot had been the one, this time. He’d held Quentin and talked him through the movements of magic, had helped him make something whole. It was the best teaching he’d ever accomplished. 

Quentin leaned in and kissed him, lazy and slow and deep, taking the spark of flame within Eliot and stoking it until it burned through his body. God, _Quentin_. He got to have him, hold him, walk him through this. He needed to know, needed to understand, what it meant to Eliot. 

Q pulled away for a moment, his eyes sparkling. “I did magic.” 

“Yeah,” Eliot said, pushing Quentin’s hair away from his face. “You did. You did great. I can teach you so much more, Q.”

“You need to, um, like write it down—or make like, I don’t know, recordings?” 

Quentin took in a breath, prepared to ramble about this, but Eliot shut him down. “No. I mean—maybe. Eventually. There were protocols in place around how magic was taught. And I don’t know how it is here. I don’t know _why_ it even exists here. Or how it’s fueled. Marina might—I don’t know, but she seems to know a lot. I can teach you a lot of basics, but we should… ugh, pool our resources.” He sort of hated to break it to Marina that she was a bitch in every timeline he knew, but she was okay here, more or less. Sort of a friend, even. She didn’t seem to give a fuck either way. “So. You come with me to the Stand In on Wednesday. There’s a group of magicians. And we can bring Alice and Penny and let Marina and Pete and Kady and fucking Todd deal with them.”

“Who’s Todd?”

“Unimportant,” Eliot said. 

“What about, um. Julia? And Margo?”

Eliot sighed. “The more the fucking merrier.” 

Quentin seemed sort of oblivious to the fact that Margo was probably still pissed off at him. And at Eliot. He was supposed to see her tomorrow for the project, and he figured he could smooth things over with new, improved designs and a shopping trip centered around fabrics. It was the best—only—idea he had. Because he needed Margo, too. 

In the time before, the time that led him here, he would have told Margo about all of this. It was a shitty, painful, intrusive thought. She would have told him he was a disgusting sap and that he was losing his edge. And then she would have smiled at him, indulgently patting his face or drawing him into her arms, and she would have told him that she always knew he went stupid over cute boys. And she would have loved Quentin—she did love him. Because Eliot did. And he and Margo were a pair. He wished he could run over to her apartment in the morning and lie with her in bed while she did her nails or played with his curls. But he didn’t have that here. Here, she belonged to Quentin—and _Julia_. And that wasn’t _wrong_ , not exactly. She just represented a painful, missing place inside of him. So much was coming together; but there was still so much left to do.

Quentin leaned into him, wrapping his arms around the back of Eliot’s neck. He yawned and placed his head on Eliot’s shoulder, strong thighs wrapped around his midsection. “I can stay here, right?” Q mumbled against his skin. “Like, it’s okay if I—”

“Q,” Eliot said, swallowing hard against the panic rising in his chest. He had to know; Eliot had to spell it out because it was _Quentin_ , and Quentin was self-doubt made into a person. “What do you think we’re doing here?” There was that part of him, the part that had only lived here and never known magic, the part that had built up walls and created even broader barriers after Mike had hurt him, that wanted to say something glib. But Eliot knew that this was important. He’d had a lifetime of loving Quentin in that distant place and time, and Quentin needed to _know_ there was no uncertainty here.

“Um.” Quentin wrapped himself tighter around Eliot. He could feel the thrumming of Quentin’s heart, so present, so close. “It’s just… fast. Everything happened so fast, you know, with us. I know I said that you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me. But. I know that’s—God, I keep second guessing everything I say because I just want this so fucking much.”

Eliot buried his nose in Quentin’s hair. It was so soft. He smelled so good, but not quite the same as the Q in his memories. His shampoo and maybe his shaving cream—those things were different here. But the essential Quentin-ness, the unique scent of an individual that resided in the flesh, was exactly what it had been when Eliot had loved him. That’s how he knew this was his Quentin, the lodestone that had drawn him to this place and time. An unnatural act of magic, a rip in the fabric of space-time—that’s what had brought him here. He didn’t belong to this universe. But Quentin belonged to him. He felt it in the very core of who he was. 

“I know,” Eliot said. “I know everything is so much, and it happened so fast. It wasn’t… fast for me, Q. Not really. I lost you, and I spent the rest of my life grieving. I had this picture of us I kept on my mantle from when we first met. I talked to you every day. That’s how much I missed you, how much I kept missing you. It’s been… years for me. Now that my mind is… integrating. I guess that’s the word. It’s been years and years.” Quentin let out a little huff of air, shocked maybe. Overwhelmed. Eliot’s heart thrummed wildly. “Time is an illusion, right?” 

He felt Quentin smiling against him. “You’ve told me that before, I think.”

“It’s true. For me. Especially now.”

“I guess you could, um. Yeah, I dunno. Maybe that’s… yeah. Maybe that’s true for me, too.” Quentin’s words were muffled, his lips pressed against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“And I—” Eliot paused, trying to steady himself, slow the disorganized thrumming of his heart. “I love you. I’m in love with you. That’s why I’m here. I want you—need you—here.”

Quentin was quiet, breath still fluttering against Eliot’s skin. Blood rushed in Eliot’s ears, a low-pitched, constant hum punctuated by Kristen Bell and Ted Danson talking over each other in the background. All of his adult life, Eliot had cultivated an air of casual superiority and indifference. Most things weren’t worth caring about, and those few things that were had the potential to leave his heart shattered. He’d found that out the hard way. In this life, he’d even pushed Margo away before they had ever become Eliot-and-Margo. But here, in his apartment with Quentin, with all of the tragedies and lessons of lives imperfectly lived, he could let go of the protection he’d created for himself. He owed it to Quentin, not only because the Q in this universe had been dragged into a vortex of emotions and sex and magic, but because he’d closed himself off from Quentin before, and it had never ended well. 

“I—I—um. Shit, El,” Quentin said, breathing in as he spoked, his voice pitched higher, unnerved and uncertain. 

“It’s fine, Q. You don’t have to—I don’t need you to respond. I’ve spent plenty of time being dishonest. And it’s never worked. I won’t do that with you. I just want you to know that I want you here when you—if you—want to be.” Eliot swallowed hard against his own rising panic. This was enough to make even the most emotionally evolved person to absolutely lose their shit. 

“That wasn’t, like.” A pause. Quentin’s deep breath in, then out. “That wasn’t something you said to me. I think. In the place you came from.”

“No,” Eliot said. His throat felt raw, the taste of salt and metal at the back of his tongue. “At the mosaic, I did. It was hard and I just—it took a long time. I gave myself another chance here. And I’m not going to go over the same mistakes. I’ll just—I’ll be making new ones.”

“Fuck, Eliot—” Quentin pulled back and looked at him, his expression almost pained. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but he closed his mouth again, his lovely eyebrows drawn together. 

“Hey,” Eliot said, bringing his thumb to Q’s forehead and trying to press the worry away. “No games. Just the truth. Yes, stay. Stay.” He brought his lips to Quentin’s, closing his eyes and feeling the weight of Quentin’s body as they melted together, relishing the slight taste of wine on his tongue, the feeling of his strong hands pressed against his neck, the touch of his fingers as they rose to tangle in his hair. He reached over to the coffee table with his foot, closing his laptop with his toes, rather gracelessly. Quentin’s empty wine glass rattled on the table and threatened to fall. Eliot caught it just as it tipped, straightening it out with his magic and pushing it back on the table a few inches. Quentin smiled, still kissing him, his compact body tight and insistent against him, his cock more than half hard now, hot against Eliot’s torso. It was a quick shift, the heat inside of him turning from calmly radiating golden sparks to fire, burning fast and hot. Even the simple button-down shirt he’d opted for this evening (no waistcoat for an evening at home, not this time) felt like too much between them, and Eliot was moving his hands in tuts, impatient, his buttons popping open as Quentin kissed him desperately. He rucked up Q’s shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside, bringing him in close, skin to skin, swallowing the gorgeous moans and sighs Q made against him. Quentin had always hated his body, Eliot had learned in the years they knew each other, which was a crying shame because there was so much to love about it. He was firm and dense, all lean muscle and strength, broad shouldered, wholly masculine. 

“You’re beautiful, baby,” Eliot murmured against Quentin’s lips. Quentin whimpered against his lips, his hands roaming over Eliot’s shoulders, tugging at his open shirt and pulling it off. His chest was flushed pink, his nipples pebbled. Eliot bent to take one in his mouth and then the other, his hands pressed to the small of Quentin’s back. Quentin let out a shocked little sound, not much more than a breath, tilting his head back as Eliot kissed and licked at his skin, exploring with teeth and tongue, relishing each taste and sound and movement. The heat inside of Eliot rose and crested in a wave; he shivered with the pleasure of it, the ability to be so close, to have what he’d wanted. He was no longer the Eliot split in pieces. His love for Quentin had grounded him in this reality, made a home for him here. For now, he was going to accept that—what other alternative was there?

“Eliot—I—” 

Quentin didn’t or couldn’t finish his thought, so Eliot kissed him deep and slow, moving his lips over Quentin’s jaw and down the line of his neck. He laid Quentin out before him on the couch, and he pressed their bodies together for a long moment, lips against the line of Quentin’s collarbone, savoring the feeling of Q’s legs wrapped around his body, the sensation of his fingers tangled in his curls, the light touch of his mouth against his forehead, the gasps as Eliot kissed and licked his way down his body. He ran his fingers along the inside of his waistband, unbuttoning his jeans, pulling them down to Quentin’s knees and revealing the lovely line of his cock, which Eliot _adored_. And really, Eliot thought everyone deserved a blow job after doing magic for the first time (regardless of whether or not they had a dick). He flicked his eyes up at Quentin and smiled, thinking that this was how he always envisioned being in love, whenever he’d thought about it (which certainly hadn’t been much in this life, not since he’d left home for New York). But when he did, he thought it might look like this—a lovely, flushed boy, hands tangled in his hair, saying his name, low and rough, as Eliot brought him into his mouth and proceeded to blow his goddamn mind. Eliot took him down to the root, tracing his tongue along the underside of his shaft, moving up again and licking over his head, tasting the saltiness at his slit. Quentin’s hands fluttered over Eliot’s hair, not quite grabbing, more like he didn’t know what the fuck to _do_ with his hands, gasping and moaning, hips arching up off of the sofa. 

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Quentin was saying, nonsensically, letting out a string of curses as Eliot, sort of showing off, lazily took him to the back of his throat, swallowing and drawing up and back to the head, tongue swirling over it again, repeating the motions slowly enough so that he kept Quentin on edge as long as possible. “Eliot—oh I’m—” 

Eliot hummed contentedly, one hand on Quentin’s thigh, the other at the base of his cock. He’d done this hundreds—god, a thousand?—times when they’d been together at the mosaic. Those memories came and went, not crisp around the edges like those from Eliot’s other life, but the things that stayed with him, the things that came through, were filled with warmth and closeness, just like this. He remembered Q’s taste, the slip of his skin against his tongue, the breathless, ragged moans when he was getting close. He knew this body, and yet, in this world, it was a pleasure he’d only experienced a few times, rife with mystery and all the tenderness and enthusiasm of youth. The duality was a thrilling thing, urging him forward, holding a lit match to the spark of need dwelling inside of him. Quentin was close, so close, his cock deliciously hard and straining, fucking up into Eliot’s mouth like he couldn’t contain himself. Eliot matched his speed, his intensity, channeling what he knew of Quentin into making this exactly what he needed. When his thrusts became disorganized and rhythmless, his body hot and cock impossibly hard, Eliot took him in to the back of his throat again. Eliot felt Quentin’s cock swell, balls drawing up tight, tasted the salt-and-alkaline warmth as he started to come, the sounds falling from his mouth awed and stricken. Eliot swallowed everything he had to give because he’d spent years longing for this, because it was all that he’d wanted for so long. After a few breathless moments, he gathered Q in his arms again, drawing him into a kiss and living for the moans falling from his mouth as he tasted himself on Eliot’s lips.

Later, when they fell asleep in a jumble of limbs, his lips pressed to Quentin’s hair, he judged he’d done a decent job of preventing a _discussion_ of the kind Q probably wanted to have. Things had been said, left on the table. This Eliot might have been _evolved_ compared to his former self, but there was only so much _relationship talk_ he could take at a time. At the end of the day, he was still Eliot. (In the morning, as it turned out, he was also still Eliot, and he kissed Quentin for so long and so thoroughly that he was unable to form coherent thoughts before he went to class.) It was just as well that they left their conversation for another time since he knew Quentin would be coming back. 

***

Margo’s apartment was a fifteen minute walk from the Garment District in Manhattan. He knew, from the memories of first meeting her in this world, that her father had spared no expense in housing her in Manhattan. She had an entire two-bedroom place to herself, where one bedroom served as a walk-in closet. She’d also selected an apartment where she could walk to her classes, her favorite restaurants, the best fabric and fashion stores, and the coffee shop that she and Q favored. Despite all of the advantages she’d been born into, Margo was angrily determined to outdo everyone in her class, and now Eliot had been dragged into her competition fetish and was being forced to perform despite his own apathetic attitude toward classes and grades and actually turning in work on time. He was making a reasonable showing so far, but it was mostly for Margo’s benefit. It helped that Quentin thought it was hot he was making Fillory-related designs. (It had helped a _lot_ , actually.)

Eliot now found himself in a position he’d carefully avoided ever since he’d ghosted Margo a year ago. He’d been ashamed and alone when he avoided Margo’s texts and calls, fully aware that he’d ditched the only real friend he had in Manhattan because of a boy who had never really loved Eliot. And now—just like with Quentin—he had the full picture of what he’d lost. 

When he rounded the corner, he saw her, coffee in hand, wearing her bright purple coat and the large sunglasses that gave her an air of Holly Golightly glam. She broke the illusion when she opened her mouth. “You can do magic but you can’t figure out how to check the time on your goddamn phone, you cock.” 

“And good morning to you, Margo. I brought you a muffin. That’s why I’m late.” He shoved a paper bag at her. 

Startled, she took it and opened it, moving her sunglasses down her nose to eye it suspiciously. “The hell is this?”

“A cinnamon sugar muffin.”

“Is this a fucking peace offering after you spent the morning railing Coldwater?”

Eliot bit the inside of his cheek. She wasn’t _wrong_. But she wasn’t in charge of either of them. (She’d likely argue that she was.) “How many points does a certain degree of honesty get me?”

Margo’s lips tugged into a quick smile. “Like maybe one point. Lucky for you, a bitch loves these muffins.” 

“I remember,” Eliot said, rocking back on his heels, a little nervous. “We got them when—”

“After we first met. I remember. Before you went off on your re-goddamned-diculous Mike-fucking spree.” 

“Yes. Before all that.” His stomach turned over, just like it did every time he thought of Mike. The memories that revolved around his only real relationship in this world had become infinitely more complex since his… well, his jump into this universe. Nothing about Mike had been good, anywhere, in any world. He’d left broken pieces of Eliot in his wake, whether or not he’d been possessed by a fucking crazy magician. It was Eliot’s fault, he’d thought for a long time, that he was so foolish, that he thought he could be loved. He’d pushed everyone around him away as a result. 

“So, I don’t know whether to believe a word you say,” Margo started, turning on her heels and walking in the direction of the two fabric stores they’d agreed upon. “My head’s been spinning since your little David Blaine act at brunch. And Quentin has head so far up your twat that he can barely put two words together when he texts me. It’s all ‘yeah’ or ‘no not really’ or ‘see you at coffee shop later, can’t talk now’ kind of bullshit. Julia might be fine with you waltzing into everyone’s life, but she doesn’t know you. And I’m not sure I buy your whole stupid fucking story—”

“Margo—”

“And another thing. Like I said, Q doesn’t do well with a bunch of unstable bullshit, no matter how frequently he’s getting boned.” He was approximately twice the length of one Margo, but she was somehow outpacing him, nearly barreling into traffic when they reached the next crosswalk. He grabbed her by her coat collar, and she turned to look up at him, her face locked in a scowl. 

“Margo—”

“You’ve got him high on your dick vapors—”

“My what?” 

Margo lurched forward, dragging him with her across the street when the lights changed. “I mean, he definitely needed a distraction after months of pining in his bat cave. But this was not a Margo-sanctioned distraction. He knew that. I should’ve known you’d lurk around after you met him just to pull someone into your circle of self-destruction—and you do a few magic tricks and suddenly, he’s hypnotized.” She was panting and rosy-cheeked by the time they arrived at Mood Fabrics, which had just opened. She was about to swing the door open and rage inside when Eliot caught her on the shoulder. 

He sighed. His stomach twisted each time he was close to her, each time he had to process that they weren’t the same people they had been. Or—maybe they were the same people, but they weren’t the same people _to each other_. “I don’t know how to make you believe me, Bambi.”

She flinched a little at the nickname. “I don’t know how to believe you, El.” 

“I love him,” he said. Because he might as well fucking say it, he guessed. Not that it would go a hell of a long way with Margo, who fancied herself Q’s protector. It would have been kind of sweet and funny if it weren’t so painful. 

“Yeah, okay, Captain Romance. After a week?” She swept her hair over one shoulder. She’d straightened it today, probably after doing a keratin mask. He remembered being the person she chose for weekday spa mornings. But now it was probably some bitch he didn’t know. Or _Julia_ , God forbid. They probably had a long discussion about the science behind magic or some bullshit after they fucked off after brunch. Fucking _Julia_. Come the fuck on.

“Look, it’s not a week. Not in my head. Quentin believes me.”

“You told him you _love_ him?” She curled her lip like she’d was talking about buying leggings from Walmart. “You know he’s not like you.”

“Like what? Tell me what I’m like.” Eliot intended to sound angry, or at least mildly disgruntled, but he honestly couldn’t work up the energy to fight against Margo. His words just came out as listless and sad. 

She looked at him for a long moment, silent, wheels turning in her head. “I don’t know. You didn’t give me a chance to know, did you?”

“I am now,” he said. “And I told you. I have a whole set of other memories, and you’re part of them. Margo, I think you’re the one responsible for getting me here.”

“You know you sound absolutely batshit fucking insane, don’t you?”

Eliot nodded. “And I would think I was. But Q can feel it, too. I’m different than I was when I met you last year.”

“Q’s brain has been dick-scrambled. I can’t believe a goddamn word he says because I know he _wants_ it to be true.”

“He did magic last night. I taught him a simple casting, and he did it. Like he’d done it a thousand times.” Eliot was probably talking too loud now for a reasonably busy street in Manhattan. But, fuck it, he guessed. 

Margo took off her sunglasses and stared at him, locking him in an unreadable gaze. Eliot thought he might have to break the silence, but Margo did instead. “That fucker didn’t text me.”

He snorted. “He was otherwise occupied.”

Margo took out her phone, likely to berate Quentin or tell him he was part of a group hallucination. Instead, she knitted her brows when she looked at the screen. “Oh. Well. Looks like he did. This morning. It says—” She barked out a laugh. “—‘hey margo, did magic.’ What the fuck, Q? Jesus Christ, the both of you.”

“There are other people at the bar where I work. They’re meeting tomorrow. Q is coming. And I guess… Penny. And fucking Alice.” Eliot shrugged. It was what it was. 

“Not that bitch.”

“That bitch,” Eliot said. He didn’t think it was the right time to tell Margo that Alice was her daughters’ godmother. That seemed like it would go over all kinds of wrong. (She still was kind of _that bitch_. Even Alice would probably own that. Master magician, Dean of Brakebills West, and _that bitch_.) “She can bend light. Showed up at Q’s apartment and demonstrated. And Penny can travel. Like, um, pop out of one place and end up in another.”

“So that dick can apparate?” Margo had drawn in closer to him, almost imperceptible. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Eliot shrugged. “Is that that some vampire thing? Like Buffy?”

“Oh my God, Eliot,” Margo said, shaking her head. “You’re the biggest airhead—”

“Just because I’m not up on my weird creature lore—”

“Have you not seen Harry Potter? Like any one of the _eight movies_? I won’t ask you if you’ve read the books, because God forbid you should actually open a goddamn book—”

“I’ve opened many books, Bambi,” he said, a touch impatient. “I just don’t make much of an effort to finish them.” 

“God, you’re so predictable.”

“I feel like anything about magic being real shouldn’t be classified as predictable,” Eliot whispered. He looked around, and there didn’t seem to be anyone evil watching them. And it was New York, so no one was listening. Probably. “Or maybe I’m just too blasé about the whole thing.” 

Margo’s hands were on her hips, foot tapping against the sidewalk. “I don’t have all day to listen to your bullshit, Dumbledore. Wrap it up, and then we need to pick out some fucking fabric for the goddamned project. Then you can get back to dicking Quentin and leave me out of it.” 

He stepped closer to Margo, feeling a little desperate, a bit adrift after everything he’d told Quentin, unmoored from the anchors he had used so long to keep him tethered, grounded. “You were my best friend. More than that. My family. My person. I never had anyone who loved me for real until I met you. I fucked that up here, Margo. I fucked up with Quentin in my other… life, world, whatever. I make a habit of fucking up the things I love. But you were my constant in… that other life. The one before. I think you’re the one who got me here because you knew I _needed_ to be here.”

She looked pained, studying him like she was looking for evidence of dishonesty in his face. “And you think you’re here because you love Q? Like that’s what I’m going to write on the intake form at the mental hospital?” 

Eliot cracked a half-hearted grin, that same salt-and-metal taste of fear he’d had last night sitting at the back of his throat. “Yeah. I lost him. Young. We were all… so young… when he died.”

Margo’s eyes darted over his face, and she swallowed hard like she was trying to regain her composure. “He died?”

“Yeah. Saving me. Saving magic. He’d just turned twenty-six.”

She tapped her foot against the pavement. “That’s on brand.”

Eliot breathed out through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Yeah.”

“He’s a dipshit,” Margo added, not unkindly. 

“I’m not just here because of him. I lost you, too. Just a lot later on.” God, hasn’t he cried enough already in the past twenty-four hours? He shouldn’t have worn eyeliner for this occasion, but he only fucked with waterproof. A bitch didn’t need smudges. He dabbed at his eyes. “What was I going to do there? Go get my pedicures with Alice?” 

“Christ on a tit, Eliot.” Margo patted at her eyes with the back of her hand, but she looked fierce as ever when she met his gaze. Eliot was probably sporting the sexy train wreck look at this point. “Fuck. I’m not ready for feelings before noon. So— _so_.” She clasped her hands. “Here’s what happens now. We’re going to pull up your designs. We’re going to buy some fabric. You’re going to tell me how we’re going to win this thing. Because, despite the fact that you can lift sugar packets with your mind, we’re living in a non-magic AU and—”

“What?”

She ignored him. “—and Mama needs a job after graduation. And you need a way to not be homeless. There are no magic wand shops or butter beer bars here. And no magic school—right?”

“Not as such, no. But you should come to the Stand In. Wednesday night. See some magic. _Do_ some magic. Talk about it.”

“With _Alice_? And Penny?”

He shrugged. “Invite Julia.”

“Julia’s not going to come in from Connecticut.” 

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I know Julia Wicker relatively fucking well. Probably better than you do. There’s no way she _won’t_ come.” 

Margo cracked a grin. “I’m beginning to see your fake memories in a new light. Entertainment potential. _After_ we pick out fabrics, you can tell me all about all of our magical experiences in magical fucking Disneyland.”

“Fine,” he said. He’d made progress. Even if only just a bit. He knew he had. It was an opening.

When they stepped into the fabric store, he felt hollowed and exhausted from all of the oversharing he’d done in the past twelve hours or so. It wasn’t natural for Eliot to dig this deep; he itched for a coffee, or a coffee spiked with whiskey. Or whatever. Something to hold onto. He handed the tablet he’d been working on to Margo, watching her as she flipped through the designs. Her eyebrows lifted, which was hopefully a good thing. God help him if his designs weren’t good enough to win. 

“So this coronation dress… you said it was based one of your memories?” 

Eliot nodded. “You were elected High King of Fillory. Dark horse candidate. Won on a write in due to the vote of the… sentient animals. It’s a long story, but the crux of it is that you grabbed the bestiality vote.” 

A smile bloomed across Margo’s lovely face. “Yeah?”

“You definitely stole my throne. It was marvelous.”

“That’s going on the intake form, too. But I like the turn of events you’re describing. Sounds… right.” She paused, a thoughtful look passing over her features. “So, you and me—”

“I was crowned High King. I crowned you High Queen. Quite a lot of shit happened after that. But then you were king, which was fucking delightful just for the looks on all the old patriarchal pricks’ faces.”

Margo let out a quick laugh. “I’m all for smashing the fucking patriarchy.” That’s all she said, still looking at him suspiciously like he was attempting to con her somehow. She shook away the look and launched into an exploration of embroidered fabrics, leading Eliot around the store like she knew it better than he did (she didn’t), but he was content to let her take charge of the fabric, interjecting only when he thought something would be too difficult to sew. He’d seen enough Project Runway to know that it didn’t go well when you bit off more than you could chew. He picked up a few things here and there as accent pieces, knowing they weren’t supposed to go over their budget but also knowing that Margo’s credit card would allow them a bit of flexibility. There weren’t stringent checks on these kinds of projects, so they might as well do as well as they could. 

“This looks like a couch,” she said, running her fingers over the gold brocade Eliot was holding. “From a creepy bed and breakfast that has a reputation for ghosts.”

“Trust me. It’s perfect. Brocade is _de rigeur_ for kings of Fillory.”

Margo gave a little huff and crossed her arms. “It’s going to look dated.”

“It won’t. I know exactly what I’m doing, Bambi.” He lifted his chin, haughty. “Let me have my brocade. I’ll prove it to you. It’s going to look incredible with our warrior look—and the coronation gown.”

“You’re sure your vision won’t look too ‘Lord of the Rings?’”

“That sounds… vaguely familiar.”

Margo pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, you’ve made your point.”

“What point?”

“The point is that you don’t have any frame of reference for high fantasy, so it can’t look derivative. Let’s go with that.” She tapped her fingers on a bolt of burgundy fabric. “And you said like a… 80s new wave makeup vibe?”

He nodded. “Lots of eyeliner. Bold lips. High heels. You’ll walk the coronation look.”

“I never agreed to that.” 

“It was tacit. You’re my muse.” He smiled at her sweetly, heart beating a little wildly. 

“The fuck I am,” she said. But she was hiding a little smile.

“What if I showed you a simple freezing spell?” Eliot said, sidling up to Margo as she sorted through the fabrics they’d selected and compared them with Eliot’s drawings. 

“I don’t know, Eliot. What if you did?” The words were perfunctory, almost sarcastic. She wasn’t paying him any attention. “This fabric—” She picked up one of the heavier satins they’d picked out. “—is like twenty-five bucks a yard.”

Eliot bit his lip. He wasn’t perfect with his illusion magic, but he could do a few things here and there since he’d taught at Brakebills for so long. He made a show of looking at the price tag and then he did a little tut that changed the price to ten dollars a yard. Not so cheap that it would immediately raise suspicion. “It’s on sale now,” he whispered. 

Margo’s eyes went wide. She was a marvelous person, obviously. But she loved a good bit of treachery. “You did that,” she breathed, like she didn’t remember the spells that he’d demonstrated at brunch. She punched him on the arm, a little harder than strictly necessary. 

“We simply must have the right fabric to create the most aesthetically pleasing Fillorian fashions. If it takes a little… creativity, that’s on the other contestants to be equally creative. Certainly not our responsibility if we’re both smarter and more talented than they are.” 

Stifling a laugh, she held up another fabric—one of the brocades he’d selected. “Since this is ugly anyway—”

“It is not,” he said, holding a hand to his chest in mock horror. “It’s delightful. But oh, look, it’s nineteen dollars a yard. Going to have to make sure we come back when it’s on sale.” He waved a tut out near the price tag, doing it in such a way that he just looked like he was just having a normal conversation, rather than stealing from Fabrics, Fabrics in The Garment District. Well, it wasn’t stealing if the prices were right there on the tags, was it? 

Margo gave him an amused look. “Okay, bitch. You’re winning me over with this shit. I guess that’s your plan, huh? Get me all addled with your third-rate magic tricks and convince me we’re supposed to be besties?”

“They’re at least second-rate magic tricks,” he said, carrying an armful of fabric bolts up to the counter, where he cut them methodically. He loved this place because they let him do the measuring, and they always trusted him. It was silly to trust Eliot, of course, but he had a way with little old fabric ladies—and the fabric gays, come to think of it. “Is it not working, Bambi?”

“I’ve sucked dicks for less. But I don’t mind sucking dick.” She was talking too loudly and definitely drawing the attention of a fabric gay who worked at Fabrics, Fabrics. Eliot looked in his direction and shrugged like, ‘What am I going to do with this bitch?’ The sensation was as familiar and lovely as kissing Quentin. This is what he did with his Bambi. And then they decompressed over drinks. 

“Bitch, me neither,” Eliot said, gathering up the fabrics and making his way to the counter. He worked a few final tuts, hidden beneath the fabric in his arms, changing the pricing for a few more items. Margo caught his eye and laughed. She’d always enjoyed a good heist, no matter how small. 

They were loaded down with bags after they’d paid a very confused fabric lady who claimed she ‘didn’t know about the sale,’ and Eliot had shrugged and complimented her scarf, looking into her eyes with great sincerity while Margo couldn’t stop herself from snorting. 

“Okay, Bambi. You believe I can do magic?” They were standing at the crosswalk by the store, waiting for the light to turn. They looked quite fabulous, Eliot thought, with all their bags, Bambi with her sunglasses and her fetching fuchsia coat, Eliot in his favorite paisley tie, chambray vest, and and trench coat. Really, this was evidence enough that Margo should just capitulate and give into the siren song of Eliot’s delightful friendship. He could make up for a _lot_ of his past wrongdoings with the material things he was so good at—making the best cocktails, hunting through top tier vintage stores for the best finds, looking decorative. And he could do _magic_. It had really caused him enough trouble in his previous life that he should be able to use it to get Margo back in his life. (What? Eliot never said he was a hundred percent benevolent when it came to getting things he wanted.)

She looked up at him, eyebrows quirked together in a questioning way. “I do.”

Eliot grinned. “I know you might not believe the part about getting a bunch of memories from another world.”

“Not particularly,” she said. “I do think _you_ think that, though. I think you overdosed, and you got hit on the head. Oh, and you refused to go to the doctor. And you probably have a traumatic brain injury.”

“Okay, noted.” The light changed, and Margo marched across the street, barreling forward. Eliot didn’t even know where she was going after this, but apparently she did. “Margo—” He ran to catch up with her, weighted down with bags of fabric. “If you wanted—”

Margo looked back at him, still traipsing forward to some unknown destination. “Yes, you dick. I’ll get a drink with you. God. As long as we go somewhere with food. Preferably flatbread pizza.”

Eliot smiled and caught up with Margo, who was on some sort of pizza-related mission. “And you know a place—”

“No, I’m just walking for the health benefits. Keep the fuck up.”

***

Parker and Quinn was a bit pricey for Eliot’s taste. He generally relied on Josh to feed him when he was out because he was generally pretty fucking broke. But Margo’s credit card was his sugar daddy today, and he couldn’t argue with that turn of events. 

“My dad doesn’t give a fuck what I put on the credit card. I figure he owes me for being a total dick after I turned into a teenager.”

“After he gave you that car. The Audi.”

Margo took off her sunglasses and set them on the table next to her menu. “What would you know about that?”

Eliot sighed. He took a sip of his tequila sunrise. Thank fuck for restaurants in New York not batting an eye when you needed tequila before noon. “You were my secrets partner at Brakebills.”

“I don’t go around telling that story.”

“You had to so you could stay at school. We got drunk on the roof of the main hall and turned into geese after we spilled our darkest secrets.” Eliot promptly took another long gulp of his drink. 

“What the fuck? Geese?” She paused. “So you know about—”

“Yeah. The whole thing with that guy—Aiden.” 

Margo’s face went still. “I _never_ told you about that.”

“But you did.”

Margo appeared to be considering this, sipping at her Bloody Mary and dipping a piece of bread into the thick, golden olive oil on her plate. “I don’t know how you found out about that—”

“Here’s a thought—you could just trust me. My intentions are pure.”

“I don’t know what your intentions are, but I’m smart enough to know they’re sure as shit not _pure_.” 

“That’s fair. This is all selfish. I want Quentin in my life. I want you in my life. It’s all about me. Happy?”

“Overjoyed,” Margo drawled. She took a bite of her pizza, chewing slowly like she was contemplating something. “You know, Quentin told me he was getting like, runoff memories. Like he could see some of what you’re seeing.”

“He told you that?”

“He tells me everything,” she said. Other-universe Margo would weep to see her openly admitting to loving Quentin so damn much. Eliot smiled. He didn’t mind it a bit. He just wanted his place back, seated at the right hand of Bambi, forever and ever, amen. There was a hollowed out, empty ache inside of him at the thought that he might not be able to fix Eliot-and-Margo, not how it was. 

“He’s getting a lot of spillover. Or whatever you call it. When I’m close to him, physically. I don’t know exactly how it works.” Eliot nibbled at his own pizza, but he wasn’t feeling that hungry. He was going to guess Quentin didn’t let her know they were almost certainly releasing magic into the air when they fucked. 

“You’re not just placing all this information in his head?”

“Honestly, I’m not capable of pulling such a sophisticated con. That’s definitely more your thing.”

She smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. You know, you sound different. You speak differently. You seem fine with just saying emotional shit. Did that whack on the head knock something loose?”

“Maybe,” he said. He abandoned his pizza in favor of the tequila sunrise. That particular aspect of his personality hadn’t changed. “But he’s picking up things I never told him.”

“Mass hallucination.”

“With actual magic.”

She shrugged. “Weirder shit has happened in the universe.”

“Like me picking up memories from another timeline?”

Margo grumbled. “Touché. Say this is real. That you’re right about this.”

“I am.”

“I just can’t—” Margo sighed. “It seems like a sweet idea, us being friends again. But Eliot, when you overdosed—I’ve never been so scared in my life. I almost watched you die. I can’t go through that again. I wrote you off—and you didn’t even _care_ , if you even noticed. And then you show up for the project, you start banging my friend and tell him you’re in love with him. And you do some magic tricks, tell me we’re best friends in a different universe, and that makes everything okay?”

“When you say it like that—”

Margo started laughing—hard, so hard that she drew attention from the waiter, who looked scandalized that anyone would be laughing that loud in such nice place. She laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes, and she wiped them away with her napkin. “The whole thing is a little hard to swallow, Percy Jackson.”

“Who?”

She waved her hand. “Never mind. I’m sure Quentin has no trouble swallowing it at all,” she said drily. 

Eliot gasped. “Why, Margo. How uncouth. And in such a nice place, too.” 

“I’m mostly serious.” She couldn’t help grinning. “I mean it. The guy is ripe to believe anything. It doesn’t hurt that you walked right out of his wet dream fantasy world.”

“I haven’t even told him I was High King of Fillory.”

“His dick will explode.”

“We certainly can’t have that. I’ve barely broken it in.” Eliot forced himself to eat some bread. He’d spent the bulk of his adult life in that other world never doubting _anything_ with Margo. Here, he’d fucked himself over good and well, and he was face to face with the Margo everyone else had found so terrifying. Play stupid games, get stupid prizes. 

Margo groaned. “Gross. You two are playing house now, huh?”

Eliot shrugged and dipped a bit of bread in the olive oil. He’d honestly prefer if Quentin just moved in with him so that he could make sure he didn’t sacrifice himself for some noble cause, but he couldn’t exactly drop that into casual conversation after they’d fucked a few times and Eliot had randomly dropped a single love confession bomb which he promptly distracted Quentin from by fucking him again. It wasn’t the right time. “If he wants. He doesn’t seem to have realized what a gigantic fuckup I am.”

“He’s had stars in his eyes since the moment he laid eyes on you, you silly dick,” she said, putting a hand over his. Her voice was a bit softer. “He’s an even more ridiculous pile of mush than you are. So.” She clapped her hands together. “Just don’t go and fuck it all up. I got lured in by Q’s dorky, bitchy thing and ended up having to scrape him off the floor after Alice shit on his dreams. I don’t have an ounce of patience left for all that feelings garbage. Okay?”

“That’s my shovel talk?” Eliot sat back in his chair, letting out a deep breath. This was… better. Not all the way there. But. 

“I fuckin’ guess it is. Play nice. Don’t die. Et cetera.” Margo groaned and held her hands up to the sides of her head like she was attempting to stave off a headache. “Now, I’m probably going to regret this—but.” She pursed her lips. 

“But what?”

“Teach me the thing. Let me see if I can do it.” 

Eliot leaned forward. “The freezing spell? It was always _your thing._ You froze chunks of ice all over the Cottage before your second year exams.”

“Fucking fine. Let me see if I can do it.”

“Okay.” Eliot grinned and made sure Margo was watching. He showed her the tut, a simple, quick gesture. He pressed his finger to his drink, and a tiny bit of frost appeared on the rim of his glass. “Like that.”

Margo knitted her brows together in concentration and performed the tut quickly, exactly how Eliot had done it, and she pressed her fingers to her drink. For a moment, nothing happened. Patterns of frost then cascaded over the glass, and Eliot watched as the ice crystals rose through her Bloody Mary, freezing it fucking solid. Margo’s mouth dropped open in an O shape. “El, did you see—” 

Before she could finish her thought, the frozen drink shattered with a loud cracking sound, sending broken glass and Bloody Mary mix across the table in a starburst pattern.

“Fuck me sideways,” Margo murmured.

“Excuse me, _garçon_ , could we get a clean up?” Eliot waved his hand at the waiter, who appeared promptly, staring down at the chunks of frozen vodka and tomato juice set amongst the shards of glass. “Now that I’m thinking about it, could we get a new table?” Eliot kept his void mild and even, looking up at the waiter with a smile. He nodded, his face pale, and he moved them to another table. 

After Margo had a fresh drink in hand, she did the spell a second time (because of course she did), sending a quick swirl of frost over the glass, enough to make it the perfect temperature. “Hm. Fabulous party trick.” She took a sip. “Not as good as the Bloody Marys at Cafe Clover.”

“You can do a lot more than that. Come to the bar Wednesday night. Get Julia here.”

“Fucking fine,” she said. “I guess doing magic is pretty goddamn legit. We’ll be there. I’ll drag Wicker’s ass up from Connecticut.” 

And now for the final card he had to play. “Your wife always loved that you kept her drinks just below freezing.” 

“Huh,” Margo breathed, sitting back in her chair and taking a sip of her drink. “She hot?”

“On a one to ten scale, she’s an eleven.”

Margo smiled. “Figures,” she said.

Later, when Eliot got back to his apartment, he could feel that someone had tried to get past the wards. A cold pit of panic rose inside of him as he closed the door behind him and knitted the honeycomb of magic back together, pulling the threads tight around his apartment like a protective blanket. 

It was probably nothing. But he texted Marina just in case.


	24. Five Short Stories about Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five new members join Marina's coven. 
> 
> Eliot has some feelings. Lots of PDA.

Five Short Stories about Magic

~Penny~

Penny wouldn’t say he was friends with any of these people, but he didn’t really like the word ‘friend,’ anyway. He figured they were something else. Something there wasn’t a word for. ‘Circle’ seemed as good as anything. His circle. He wouldn’t be caught dead saying that out loud, but he thought about it sometimes. More nowadays.

That’s how he found himself walking toward this shitty bar with Alice Quinn in step beside him. 

“Do you know Eliot much?” She asked in a low voice. Quentin was just ahead of them, talking to Margo.

“No, not much.” That was a less complicated answer than the actual truth, but it was close enough. 

She looked from side to side nervously. “I just hope we’re not walking into a death trap Quentin’s wizard-boyfriend set up for us.”

“Only one way to find out.”

As far as people went, Alice was fine. She was smart, and she was prickly and a little bitchy in a way that Penny had mad respect for. While her childhood with Daniel and fucking Stephanie didn’t sound quite as fucked up as Penny’s parade of shitty foster homes, she was plenty fucked up, like a level of fucked up that Penny could totally understand, like on a visceral level. 

Quentin was a person he lived with. No labels. He was a gigantic dork with Fillory and Dragon porn posters all over his room, and he annoyed Penny to no end when he talked about his stupid hero’s journey character arc bullshit. Penny was in grad school for social work because he was a masochist and apparently wanted to be dirt poor and constantly exhausted. (He’d had the insane thought somewhere along the way that he could help kids who were like him—out of place, unloved, ignored, discriminated against. It was stupid. But here he was, committed, answering to the better angels of his nature despite the nagging feeling that he was going to be tired and broke for the rest of his days.) Point was, he was doing something _active_ with his degree. He’d have a purpose with social work, like a job he could apply to and get paid for. Quentin would be—what?—like an English professor? The world didn’t need any more sadistic assholes getting people to write fucking dumb essays. 

As such, he had very little time for Quentin’s white privilege leaking all over the place when he complained about his comp lit classes, whatever the fuck comp lit was. (Penny knew what it was, but he wouldn’t cop to it.) But Quentin paid his rent on time, and he just shrugged and smiled at Penny’s jabs and bullying, and he always asked Penny if he was okay when he definitely wasn’t okay. And sure, he listened to Penny sometimes and pretended that they weren’t having a deep conversation by looking away when Penny talked. But he was always listening. He responded at the right times and occasionally gave decent advice. Apparently, Quentin’s boyfriend was also _magic_ , which was a lot less surprising than it sounded, given all the weird shit that had surrounded Quentin the second he’d signed onto Penny’s lease. (The boyfriend part wasn’t surprising _at all_.)

So. The weird shit was really fucking a-plenty right now. Weirder and shittier than it ever had been, somehow ushered into existence by Quentin’s magic boyfriend. It wasn’t that Penny _hadn’t_ had a whole lot of weird experiences—like knowing exactly what his first foster mom’s favorite flower was without asking, or getting a near perfect-score on the SATs because he could… well, he could just _see_ the answers. He’d never studied for anything in school. He didn’t need to. He already knew most of the stuff by heart the first time someone said it. Shit he didn’t understand… he could just glean the answers from someone else’s head. He had perfect grades. He kept his head down and pretended he wasn’t half as smart as he was, that he couldn’t see shit from other people’s _minds_ , and he kept mum when it came to knowing the shit he absolutely _shouldn’t_ know. 

He never would have called it magic. (Of course _Quentin did_ because Quentin was a warlock-loving nerd.) Penny thought of the myriad of weird shit as… synchronicity or luck, a trickle of coincidences that sometimes added up to something bigger. But Penny didn’t have the time to think about what that something was. He’d been too busy surviving. So he didn’t think on it at all. Until fucking Quentin moved in.

With Quentin, the _knowing_ was a lot more distinct and vivid than with anyone else. And it wasn’t just _this_ Quentin. He slowly came to the realization, in living with Quentin and having direct fucking access to his mess of a brain, that there were _other_ Quentins, too. Like images of Quentins from a few different places or times or some Twilight Zone shit like that. Fucking bizarre. Yeah, this Quentin was the loudest, and boy was he fucking loud. Like fire engine loud, singing whiny white-boy indie pop in the shower loud, thinking about Fillory and portals and his stupid fucking end-of-semester project loud. Yeah, he knew all about what Quentin was writing, whether he’d shared it or not. And now he knew all about Quentin’s magic boyfriend and all the sex they’d been having, which was like, fine. Penny had no prejudices. He just didn’t need it playing on a loop in his head while Quentin was making ramen and he was trying to fucking study. 

That was all whatever. It was just… Penny. Penny had always been Penny. His brain was fucked, but it gave him plenty of keys to get the things he wanted. (Why the fuck was he in school for social work when he could be banging hot beach moms in Miami? He didn’t have a great explanation besides those better angels and the images of all the foster kids he’d ever known, all of whom deserved a lot better than they got.) When Quentin moved in, it wasn’t super surprising that Penny suddenly knew all about _fucking Fillory_. He’d been accidentally picking shit up for twenty-five years. But after a month or two, he started seeing little flashes of a different Penny who had a different selection of scarves and went to school for _magic_. And that Penny had been a totally gigantic dick to the Quentin he lived with, bullying him beyond what was strictly reasonable. Just because he was there. Just because he could. And there was a whole other Penny who was _also_ a douche, but a less funny douche. He’d popped up from yet another timeline, and he generally acted like an ass forever, at everyone. Penny wouldn’t fess up to it, but he’d sort of started being not such a dick all the time because of the things he saw. That first Penny had died. Quentin had, too. It was all _incredibly fucking fucked up._

So, he was a little nicer. ‘Life is short’ and something something karma. Whatever. Quentin was a reasonably good dude, anyway, even if he was always dorking out over something or humming along tunelessly to The Decemberists or pacing holes in their apartment floor. 

Penny didn’t really do ‘friends’ so much. But he’d found himself walking with Quentin, Alice, Margo, and Julia (why was Quentin friends with so many hot women?) to the Stand In that Wednesday night because he’d apparently fucking teleported to some lake in Bali and then blipped right back into his fucking living room. He and his ‘circle’ were all sort of in the same boat, except Penny’s boat was full of holes, and he didn’t have any goddamn oars.

Penny gave Alice what he hoped was a bracing grip on her shoulder. “We’ll be fine. I promise.”

She gave him a shy smile. “Thanks.” 

Penny stepped ahead and caught up with Quentin, who was walking up ahead. “So, this is like a bunch of freelance witches?”

“I don’t really know. Just. That’s what Eliot implied, yeah. They all work at this one bar.” 

“And they’re people we can trust? Because I’ve seen some shit, and magic is fucking dangerous. Don’t wanna get all these people killed.” He jerked his head in the direction of the three hot women walking behind them. 

Quentin just looked at Penny like he’d kicked a puppy. But Quentin had that look a lot of the time. “I mean. I hope we can trust them. This is the, uh. Only way we’ll figure out anything about magic. No one else knows anything.”

“There’s no Hogwarts here,” Penny replied blankly. “So, no formal education for people… like us.” The summer after Penny turned ten, he’d read the first two Harry Potter books and spent the next two months living in the closet under the stairs in his foster home. That was the part he’d related to most—feeling saved from a life of neglect, a life without love. At twenty-five, Penny had apparated to Bali and probably almost drowned. The psychic shit was completely fine—like mostly manageable. But this other garbage seemed like maybe the worst idea ever. Like, who even came up with this?

The bar was dark when they got inside because the place wasn’t fucking open yet. He went over to the bar and poured himself a shot of vodka. 

“Hey, Penny, no—” Quentin started. But Penny has already handed a shot to Julia and one to Margo. If they were going to learn about _magic being real_ , they needed to do it with a little alcohol in their system. 

“Thanks,” Julia said primly. She was… stunning. But very much giving off an air of definitely-not-interested. He could still keep everyone tipsy enough to mitigate the strange-ass vibes coming off of this place.

“Q’s right—we probably shouldn’t—” Alice started.

“Bottoms up,” Penny said. 

“Q, we’re sure as fuck getting free drinks for this bizarro-world clusterfuck we’re living in,” Margo said. 

Quentin threw up his hands. “Fine.” He went over and poured himself a shot of tequila. 

“Go big or go home,” Julia said. She grabbed the tequila and took another shot. “Alice?”

“Why not?” Alice took the tequila and downed a gulp of it, coughing and hacking. 

Penny whacked Alice on the back, and she started laughing, crumbling into him. Yeah, she was alright. He guessed they all sort of were.

***

~Julia~

“We need to figure out if like, this magic is restricted to just us or if there’s—uh—a wider cause and effect here,” Quentin said in a low whisper. “Like if there’s a whole cascade of magic opening up into the world, we probably need to know. That would be kind of dangerous.”

“There’s probably no real way to tell right now. I’m betting some of these people might be able to clarify a few things for us.” She slipped her arm around Quentin, who seemed to be a ball of nerves. He kept looking around like he half-expected a beam from the rafters to collapse over all of them. 

“I spent my life wishing I had magic. And. It’s incredible. But I just—it’s terrifying, too,” Quentin said. “It’s—a lot. All at once.”

“I haven’t even done magic yet,” Julia said, her voice betraying some of her disappointment.

“Have you tried?” Quentin asked. She could tell his attention was slipping. Eliot had arrived, his curls all wild, his clothing impeccable. He was _absurdly_ beautiful. She didn’t blame Q for letting his eyes drift. When Eliot caught sight of Quentin, his face lit up, directing that dashing smile at him. 

“Hey baby,” he said smoothly, heading toward the bar and draping himself over Quentin. He pressed his lips to Quentin’s temple, buried his nose in his hair. Julia watched as Q tangled his fingers with Eliot’s without thinking, leaning into his touch like a cat and making a contented sound. After making himself a drink, Eliot sat at one of the barstools and pulled Quentin into his lap.

They gave off an aura like they’d been together for _years_. Their style of new relationship energy read more like one of them had just returned from a really long business trip, like they were trying to make up the lost time. 

“Sorry, I, uh.” Quentin pursed his lips, looking back at Julia. “Eliot’s… distracting. You said. Uh. Did you say if you’ve tried?”

“No, I haven’t tried yet,” she said. Penny gruffly handed her another shot of vodka. He was hot in an abrasive kind of way, but he was making his rounds and talking to the other witches as they arrived. Quentin had informed Julia that these ‘witches’ were sort of outcasts in the other universe. And Eliot had claimed that he was a ‘classically trained magician,’ which sounded like a title for someone who went to clown school and pulled long scarves out of his sleeves at birthday parties. She couldn’t see how that was any different from calling yourself a witch. 

“Whatcha waiting for?” Quentin asked. Eliot had slipped one hand around his waist, and Q leaned his head back against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“I wanted to wait to meet everyone here, I guess. See what kinds of spells are circulating in this particular coven.”

“You were researching, weren’t you?” Quentin smiled at her, his dimples showing. 

“Of course I was. There are lots of… dead ends online, but I found some good leads suggesting there are at least eight covens in Manhattan. Lots of witches—er, magicians—are concentrated here due to the availability of enchanted objects and the stronger flow of magic from the people living here. Covens usually sprout up in urban areas. No one seems to know where they’re getting the ambient magic from. It seems to have popped up in this universe around 1961, from what I’ve discovered—”

Quentin was smiling at her. “You’re such a nerd.” 

“Yeah I am, bitch. How do you think I got into Yale Law?”

“You might have me beat at, uh, rambling about magic. So you should try like, doing it sometime.” Quentin smiled again and grabbed her hand, squeezing it a little before resting it again on Eliot’s arm. Something warm sparked in her heart. Yeah, everything that had happened was deeply complicated. And she believed Penny when he said there was a bunch of ‘fucked up, dangerous shit afoot.’ But in the brief times she’d seen Q over the past two weeks, he was so much happier, almost like he was a different person. Like something had cracked open inside of him, spilling out this beautiful light she hadn’t seen in him since they’d first discovered the Fillory books. He was more alive than he had been in years, and she guessed it had to do with Eliot. Maybe it was just that simple—finding the right person who wanted him in the right way. She wasn’t sure if she believed in soulmates or other worlds floating around out there where there were thousands upon thousands of Julias, all living slightly different lives but somehow traveling along, connected with this same group of people. 

Julia bit her lip. “I want to try it. Something about it makes me feel… hesitant, I guess.”

“You were—are—a powerful magician in my world. But magic continually fucked us all over. You in particular,” Eliot said, who was unabashedly touching all of Quentin, nose pressed to his shoulder. “Q, you should show her the fireworks. That’s a good one.”

Quentin wiggled a bit in Eliot’s lap, looking a little embarrassed. “Really? I didn’t think I did it that well.”

“You did it perfectly, sweetheart,” Eliot said. 

_Sweetheart?_

“Let me see this fucking magic spell,” Margo said. She was holding a mixed drink—Julia guessed everyone was just helping themselves now—and sipping at it through a straw. “Oh shit, watch this. Forgot to show you.” Margo pressed her fingers against the outside of her glass, and fractals of frost spread out from her fingers. 

“Shit,” Julia said, wide-eyed. Margo had shown her a series of door-slamming spells earlier, which seemed on brand for Margo. Keeping drinks the perfect temperature sort of kept with the theme.

“Yeah. I’m fuckin’ Elsa.” She grinned—an uncomplicated expression that Julia hadn’t seen before. “Q, show us the other thing.”

“Uh, okay.” Quentin was blushing and looking down, and Eliot whispered something in his ear that made him smile. “Fine.”

Quentin raised one hand and went through a quick series of movements (with Eliot watching his hands, all big-eyed and dreamy). When Quentin finished the sequence and pointed to the ceiling in the dark bar, a tiny set of fireworks went off, popping and crackling and releasing bright sparks into the air. She could even _smell_ a hint of smoke in the air. 

“You did it perfectly, baby,” Eliot said. He was whispering in Quentin’s ear again. _These two._

“Thanks. I had a good teacher,” Quentin replied.

Margo groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’re both disgusting. When does this party get started?”

“Few minutes,” Eliot said. “We’re waiting on Marina.”

“Jules,” Quentin said, “you should try something. The little fireworks spell isn’t hard. And Eliot said—well he said you were a knowledge student. Um. Or would have been, I guess? Which makes sense.”

“What’s that?” _Would have been?_ This other world sounded fucking intense.

“Composing spells, making up new magic from scratch, getting into the inner workings of casting,” Eliot said. He lazily moved his hand and telekinetically lifted the glass he’d been drinking from. “But you were a hedge witch for most of the time I knew you. When we were young. You and some friends continued that work after we’d saved the world for the third or fourth time.” 

“Third or fourth time? Holy shit,” Margo said. “It sounds a fuck of a lot easier just to be a grad student.”

“World kept ending. Had to keep saving it. So said the dean of our school. Total dick,” Eliot said, nonchalant. He was paying much more attention to Quentin than the words that were actually coming out of his mouth. 

“Hopefully that’s not happening here,” Quentin said, eyes darting back and forth. 

Eliot squeezed him again. “I won’t let it,” he said absently. Like Eliot had any control over magic or how it seemed to be steadily seeping into this world. 

“I’m getting the fuck out of dodge if the world is ending. I still need to meet my hot wife,” Margo said. She sipped at her drink coolly. “Eliot won’t tell me her name.”

Julia blanched. Margo was half-joking, she thought, but she was looking at Eliot a little differently, and she wasn’t about to pull Quentin out of the bar by his ear, so _something_ had changed. “Your _wife_?”

“He says I have a hot wife. I mean, I’m not _surprised_ about the hot part. Maybe the wife part. I’ve never had a marriage vision board or anything.” 

“Oh, well, _she_ definitely did,” Eliot said, smirking. “And you always did love an event. It was all anyone could talk about for a solid year before and several months after.” 

“You can’t just tease a bitch with this information, El.”

“I can and I have.”

“Give me a name,” Margo said. She poked at Eliot’s shoulder. “I wanna see if she’s real.”

“Can’t. Butterfly effect and all that. It would be irresponsible of me.”

“I think we’re a little fuckin’ beyond the butterfly effect. We’ve probably fucked everything all kinds of ways. What’s one more?” Margo finished off her drink and set it in Eliot’s hand. With a deft movement of his hand, the drink vanished.

“Where the hell did that go?” Julia asked. 

“Behind the bar. In the sink. Translocation spells are handy,” Eliot said. He was grinning. It seemed like the guy had been through a lot—and he genuinely cared about Quentin. Maybe in a little bit of an overboard, too-much way, but Julia had always thought that’s just what Quentin needed. Eliot _also_ seemed to be enjoying the attention. Kind of seemed like his thing.

“Show me the spell for the fireworks again,” she said. “I’ll give it a try.”

Eliot led her through the tuts, his arms still wrapped around Quentin. He was methodical and patient as she practiced a few times. On her first real try, she lifted her hands into the movements, and as she was casting, she felt an electric buzz in the air around her, dancing in the shadows of the bar, collecting around her body and gathering in her hands. She lifted her fingers to the ceiling in one final tut, and when she twisted her hands like Eliot had shown her, the ceiling above her lit up in starbursts of golden and red sparks. She let out a peal of laughter. “Oh my God—oh my God—I did that—”

“You sure did,” Quentin said. “I knew you could. I didn’t think I’d be able to do it at first. I didn’t want to try but—it’s amazing, isn’t it?”

She nodded wildly, twisting her hands and casting the spell again just to watch the sparks fly and fall. Eliot smiled at her. “That was lovely, Julia,” he said. “Really lovely. You’re a total Hermione.”

Julia flushed and dipped her head. “Thank you. Seriously—”

“Yo, you’re Julia, right? Sweet spell.” One of the women she’d met the night of her birthday came up and put a hand on Julia’s shoulder. She had long, dark hair that fell over her shoulders in a riot of curls. “Kady. We met the other night.” 

“Oh, shit.” Julia started laughing. “You did a shot right out of my shirt.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Like so many things in the past couple of weeks, seeing Kady again was strange. It was almost like they’d known each other before. For years. An overwhelming sense of shared history filled the air between them.

Deja vu, maybe. Maybe something else. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had happened recently. 

***

~Alice~

It was weird being with a bunch of people who all seemed to know each other. Well. She guessed Julia and Margo were sort of outsiders. And Quentin. But he had his face buried in Eliot’s shirt half the time, and the other half, he was broadcasting his giddy-in-love face to absolutely everyone. She knew Quentin had dated a couple of guys in college, but it all sounded casual. She had to check her own biases because she’d just never assumed he’d be serious about a guy. It wasn’t something she actively thought about in the time she was with Q, but it was just _there_ in the back of her mind, that when he matured, he’d move onto some other woman who was better for him than Alice had been. Someone steady and stable and able to put up with Quentin’s clinginess and his neuroses, someone who liked fantasy books and talking about poetry while holding hands and taking walks in the park. Someone wholly unlike Alice.

She was right about that last part. Just not… anything else. It was unsettling. She’d never imagined that Q would suddenly get together with a super-insanely-gorgeous tall-hot vest-wearing guy who swanned around making everyone drinks and talking like he owned the whole bar. There was a feeling there that she couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. But it was similar. Her many child therapists had always told her she wasn’t good at identifying her own emotions, and that had held steady into adulthood. So if she caught herself glaring at Eliot and his waist-accentuating embroidered-vest-tie ensemble, she couldn’t be held entirely responsible. It was just an underdeveloped aspect of her personality that hadn’t quite caught up to the rest of her. Maybe in time. Or maybe not. She had just as much right as anyone else to be a little petty.

She sat down on the edge of a sticky barstool, hunched over her Sex on the Beach that Eliot—of course—had generously made for her as soon as she’d said it was her favorite drink. She had mentioned it to Penny when she was trying to hork down her second shot of vodka, and Eliot had appeared out of nowhere a few minutes later with her drink. She knew her face was probably pinched and angry looking when she accepted it, just because that was her default look, and his whole _thing_ with Quentin annoyed her in a weirdly visceral way that made her want to throw shit around. She’d rather not feel any way about it at all. But alas.

“Hey there, kitten.” Alice looked up. It was Margo. 

“Hi.” _Kitten?_ Her eyes darted back and forth, landing on the Quentin-and-Eliot PDA parade again. Shit. She had to actually sit here and respond to Margo. She really, really didn’t _want_ to talk to Margo. She always felt like Margo was appraising her, asking herself how Alice could be _useful_. In her experience, whenever girls like Margo spoke with her, it was to gather fuel they used to bully Alice. 

She had zero idea why she’d decided to adopt Quentin like a stray. It didn’t fit into the Alice Quinn worldview that included mean girls that lived to bully people like Alice and Quentin. She would have guessed that Margo would end up treating Q like a throwaway friend, someone she used for her own amusement and tossed out the minute he’d worn out his welcome. But… that hadn’t happened. Margo had arrived at Quentin’s apartment the minute Alice left after their last post-break-up talk, and she’d given Alice a cool ‘hello,’ and then brushed past her with a huge bag of Indian take-out and a quart of pumpkin ice cream. The few times she’d run into Margo since then, she’d been… chilly, if not cold, always raising an eyebrow in Alice’s direction, like she was waiting for her to make one wrong move. And Alice had finally figured it out—it was just that she cared about Quentin. Plain and simple. An odd thing, but a thing nonetheless. Another crack in her worldview, but she’d adjust.

“Q tells me you can bend light. Let’s fuckin’ see it, Quinn.”

Alice smiled, a bit hesitant. She got that Margo was Quentin’s friend. But there was no world in which it made sense for her to be almost _kind_ to Alice. “It’s not that interesting.”

“It’s fuckin’ magic. I’m a hundred thousand percent interested. Don’t tell a bitch what she’s interested in or not.”

Alice nodded, her heartbeat a little rapid. She did the short sequence of movements that she’d memorized, and the light around her arm started to shimmer, making her arm fade, right up to the elbow. The movements sat in her brain like a memory of a memory, tugging at her until she tried it and saw her hand disappear. It had felt like it was _Quentin’s fault_ , but she couldn’t articulate why. Apparently she’d been right in assuming he was the person to talk to about random magical events. It figured; it felt right to blame him for this dramatic shift in her life—and he wasn’t even around to talk her through it. That was her fault, but still. “That’s it, really. I can’t do anything else yet. But I can feel it. I feel like… something’s changed.” This might be the longest conversation she’d ever had with Margo. “Like it has something to do with Quentin.”

Margo nodded like that made sense. “I can feel it, too. I’d always wanted magic to be real, you know.” Her voice sounded—real, for once. “I spent a long time thinking—if I could just vanish, fly away. You know?”

“Not quite, but I can imagine.” She paused and took another gulp of her drink. “I just wanted to escape, magic or not. My parents, you know.”

“Hm.” Margo nodded again. “Q mentioned. Pointless and toxic?”

“Something like that.” 

“And it does have to do with Quentin. And that tall fucker over there.” She gestured to Eliot. “He’s… sort of a friend of mine. But also—he may have fallen into this universe from another timeline. Thinks Quentin is his _soulmate_.”

“More like his cat tree. He’s climbing Quentin like he wants to make a nest on top of him.” Alice snorted at her own joke and tipped the rest of her Sex on the Beach down her throat. 

Margo cuffed her on the arm, and for a moment, she shied away like she was bracing for a punch. “Good one, Quinn. Didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

“Occasionally.” She grinned, a bit pleased. Why was it even in her to want to impress this woman?

“You copacetic with this bunch?” Margo gestured vaguely to the growing group of… people with magic. Witches? Magicians? 

“Oh. I’m not great with… people. Magic or not magic.” She was going to say ‘new people,’ but this was the most honest assessment. “But I’d rather know about this—” She flicked her hand again, and it wavered out, disappearing. “—than not know about it.”

“Looks like Q has us all on a fuckin’ quest to learn magic or whatever. You can go ahead and blame him for all this. And his cat-boyfriend.” Alice looked over at Quentin; Eliot had a hand firmly around the back of his neck, just holding him. He tipped Quentin’s head and kissed him. “Euugh. Mama doesn’t mind watching two cute boys go at it, but those two are over the fucking top in a very public space. I mean, it’s still pretty hot? But I reserve the right to belittle them for it.”

“Oh, I definitely blame them.” Alice giggled. 

“Do the light bendy thing again,” Margo said.

Alice moved her hand into the now-familiar tuts, and both of her arms disappeared. “Huh. Look at that. Getting stronger.”

“That is legitimately badass, baby.” Margo winked at her and grabbed her glass, rolling over to the bar and demanding another drink.

***

~Margo~

It wasn’t the weirdest night she’d had in a bar, that’s for fucking sure. But it was goddamn up there. 

This _coven_ , which sounded _très_ 1995, had everyone spread out in a circle like they were about to sing culturally appropriated Native American-esque songs around a goddamn campfire. Besides Marina, everyone just looked confused, and not cool at all. Eliot, in particular, seemed especially clueless but somehow had more magic than any of them—she could almost _see_ it pouring off of him in waves. Leave it to a man to get the best backstory. Dipping out of his timeline, jumping worlds, reuniting with his soulmate. And now all he wanted was his cozy relationship with Quentin; fuck the magic. It was secondary to him. How goddamn boring. He was absently petting Quentin’s hair, unable to let go of him for a moment. 

Margo shot a pointed glance at Alice, who gave her a tight smile, but a smile nonetheless. She was alright. No good for Quentin, but she’d figured out a while back that Quentin was a total fucking nightmare for certain types of people. Margo found him endearing and funny (often unintentionally), and there were very few people in her life who could sit down and discuss all the things she loved. (To be fair, she didn’t let many people in her life at all.) Contrary to her carefree, party-loving façade, she was curious about so many things, absorbing knowledge as easily as she breathed air. Quentin saw that about her from the first time they’d met—if he’d been intimidated, he hadn’t shown it. He’d been too busy asking her questions, rambling about Fillory and all the other things he loved. He could be a surly bastard and a mopey one, but he was her surly bastard.

And Eliot—he was someone she never thought she’d want to see again. Her heart ached when she thought of that awful night. She hadn’t wanted to watch him die. She had given him so much of herself so quickly, and he’d ripped it all away because of his hugely fucked up issues. She’d missed him. She still did. But _now_ when she looked at him, her thoughts were tinged with something else—a deeper knowledge, like she was longing for some part of him she’d known a long time ago. Like she was remembering him in older years, slower and more peaceful, sitting with her and watching the sun set over the Pacific. It felt so _real_ that she was _staggered_ by it, the love that resided in her for this person, across all manner of worlds.

It was fucking weird. But a lot of this was fucking weird, so she kinda had to roll with it, didn’t she? Even the whole having-a-feeling thing.

Marina was working with some dip named Todd, trying to coach him in some basic casting. Margo wouldn’t necessarily brag, but she’d picked up that shit easily. She’d been hoping for something a little more intricate, but yeah, they were mostly all new to magic, et cetera. She’d just have to be _patient_ , she guessed, which was one of her least favorite things. She pretended to watch with interest, sipping on a blackberry mojito that was infuriatingly delicious. (Eliot had made it for her—that was the infuriating part. The dick.)

“Okay, chucklekfucks, listen up.” Marina, willow-thin, her auburn hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, marched to the center of the circle and clapped her hands together. Her whole demeanor reminded Margo of a freshly sharpened kitchen knife—almost innocuous at first sight but deadly if employed as a weapon. “We’ve got a batch of novices who desperately need our goddamned help. Ordinarily, I’d put them through some kind of trial, but I’m feeling generous, so they’re going to do some cooperative magic with us.”

That dips hit Todd raised his hand—actually _raised his hand_. Marina rolled her eyes and nodded at him. “So, you had me spend most of yesterday in a meat locker—”

Marina cocked her head to one side and pouted her red lips. “Your point, Todd?”

“It just doesn’t seem fair—” 

“Todd, you can’t get the karaoke machine to work right half the time. Forgive me for testing you—”

“It’s been like two solid weeks of tests—”

“And you’re better at fucking magic now. You’re welcome.” Marina sighed and flipped her ponytail over one shoulder. “These witchy types—” She gestured at Margo’s weird little group. “—seem to have some kind of magic that carried over from another universe. It’s unclear exactly how that happened, but it has something to do with Eliot’s blackout.”

 _Blackout, sure,_ Margo thought. The idea made her a little queasy, given what she’d heard. Eliot, lying there on the dirty bathroom floor, dead—or close enough to it—before Marina found him. And that’s when his other consciousness had—what?—bonded to him in this world? That shit was fucked. 

“I don’t know much more than that,” Eliot said, his voice a little thin. “It’s not entirely clear _how_ it happened. That memory got lost—or blocked—”

“And do we know where magic comes from in this universe?” Quentin asked. Of course Quentin had asked.

“Now, wait. Who the fuck are you?” Marina cut her eyes over to Quentin.

“Uh, Quentin? I’m Quentin.” 

“And, oh so surprisingly, that gives me no information.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Eliot said. Because of course he did. Quentin _blushed_. Jesus, like he hadn’t been wrapped up in Eliot’s bed like a sex burrito for two weeks. 

“Ah, that’s special,” Marina said, smirking. What a bitch. Margo didn’t know whether she wanted to ball her up and put her in her pocket or light the whole bar on fire with Marina in it. It was a close call. “And he can do magic, right?”

“Um. Yeah. Mending and. Some object manifestation? I think?” Quentin’s eyes darted to the side and back to Marina. 

“You think or you know?”

“I know. I did it with—uh—cards. Like card tricks, but real magic, you know. Like. Yesterday. We tried that,” Quentin said. Eliot nodded. 

“Okay, well, _Quentin_ here inadvertently got us started on the track we need to go down. Now, I’m a goddamn bar manager because I didn’t want to do shit like warm up questions. But here the fuck we are. Everyone, go around and let us know what kind of magic you can do, special talents, whatever you think we need to know. Think you assholes can do that? Or do I need to spell it out for you slowly?” 

“God, Marina, they aren’t going to want to come back.” Kady—Margo thought that was her name—rolled her eyes at Marina. She obviously had exactly zero time for Marina’s shit. 

“If they can’t take a little rough talk, they shouldn’t be fucking around with magic, should they?” Marina glared at her. “So—back to the issue at hand. Quentin can do some object manifestation, some mending. Demonstrate.”

“Uh.” He looked over at Margo helplessly. The silence in the room was _deafening_ as everyone kept their eyes on Quentin, who looked like he might shrink in on himself entirely.

“Eliot.” Margo sighed. “Untangle your head from your dick, and break something for your boyfriend.” 

Eliot raised his eyebrows, but he did one of his little finger motion bits and drew a glass from the bar, holding it aloft in the center of the circle. The glass caught the light from the dim ceiling lights, refracting over the polished cement floor. He flicked his wrist and the glass dropped, shattering over the floor. Alice yelped, and that kid Todd looked like he might shit himself. But Quentin—bless him—hopped in without missing a beat. He drew his hands up and moved them through the air like he was collecting the glass, drawing it over to him. The pieces lifted, hanging suspended in the air for a few moments, coming together, knitting piece by piece, as the grayish light danced over the faces of everyone in the bar. When the glass was whole again, Margo watched as Eliot’s hands lifted, taking the glass with the weight of his telekinesis, drawing it back to his hands. That was cute. If she used words like ‘cute,’ which she typically did _not_.

“Good,” Marina said, nodding. “So Quentin here can mend shit. Eliot is a telekinetic.” Marina nodded at Julia and had her demonstrate the fireworks spell she’d just learned. Alice showed off her invisibility tricks and her ability to bend light like a human lens. Penny vanished and reappeared, looking very sulky about the whole thing. Some douche named Pete showed off his illusion-making tricks. Kady let loose some intense battle magic, which was exactly as cool as it sounded. Josh grew a plant from a crack in the floor, and poor Todd demonstrated some profoundly shitty telekinesis. 

“And you?” Marina gave Margo an appraising look. 

“Margo. Cryomancy.” She took her straw out of her mouth and held between her teeth as she put her empty drink on the floor. She fell into one of the few sequences she’d learned, creating a diamond with her thumbs and forefingers, her pinkies crossed over one another. She lifted her hands with a flourish, levitating the ice and watery remnants from her drink. She could feel the ice coming apart, separating down into its most basic components, unfreezing and drawing on the water in the air, calling ice over from the bar. The ice particles and water swirled in the air as she built up the picture of what she wanted to create—a castle with six turrets, broad, white walls, the ice building it stone by stone. She caught Quentin’s eye and winked at him as she held the vision aloft. She snapped her fingers and the ice turned to snow, the vision disappearing as flakes fell over the assembled witches. 

“Impressive,” Marina commented. “What was that?” 

“Castle Whitespire.” Margo glanced over at Quentin again, who was _beaming_ at her. God, he was a _dork_. She loved him. Eliot, on the other hand, had an almost wistful look on his face, but he caught her eye and mouthed, “ _Bambi_ ,” all tender and emotional. What a big fucking sap. Still, she smiled, something warm fizzing inside of her like Julia’s fireworks spell. Let it not be said that Margo Hanson was without emotion. She just had them very tightly organized.

“I certainly don’t know what the fuck that is, but it was some very nice casting. Good shit for your first week of magic,” Marina said. 

Margo didn’t say that she thought it really _wasn’t_ her first week of magic. But with the fuckin’ weirdness of the situation, it was implied.

***

~Quentin~

Quentin had lived with the belief that he broke things for nearly a quarter century. His mother had told him this as a child, simply stated, like it was an undeniable fact from which Quentin would never escape. He’d come to see himself that way; he’d walked through life knowing that he destroyed many of the things he touched. There was evidence—the dissolution of his parents’ marriage and all the times he’d nearly broken himself, the faded, silver lines on his wrists left as reminders of his desire for self destruction. 

Eliot had changed that, rewritten that concept by seeing Quentin as the man he could become, inspired by stories from a different life. He now had a host of impressions from two lives he hadn’t lived. The memories were made stronger whenever he was with Eliot—whenever, especially, Eliot touched him. With a brush of his long fingers, the touch of his lips, Quentin gathered these echoes, piecing them together, relearning magic and developing a new vision of who he could be. Even when the memories were dark and painful, he felt the essential pleasure of them, the knowledge that he could be someone who fixed things, someone who _could_ be whole. He’d built a life with Eliot once, in some other time, some other version of himself—those memories are more dreamlike, less clear. But he knew they’d been complete, wholes in their world together. In the other memories, from the place Eliot had come from directly, they had both fallen apart, cracked open irrevocably, sending Quentin to a dark gray world and the inevitability of his death. But Eliot had believed in Quentin so much and loved him so irreversibly that he’d come here to find him. In the odd, jittery moments when Quentin thought this couldn’t possibly be real, that this thing between him and Eliot must be some kind of trick, he held that truth inside of him like a seed that could one day blossom. Eliot had come for him. He’d taken Quentin’s life and given it new possibility. 

The woman, Marina, who Quentin knew had saved Eliot that night his consciousness had swallowed the memories and experiences from another world, was fiercely organized and efficient, even with the addition of five new magicians. She led them through hand exercises to help them learn the strength and speed they needed for the basic tuts and movements that would draw magic from the air and make it theirs. Quentin could feel the air thrumming around them, more intensely around Eliot, as they moved through the motions. With the practice movements, none of them actually performed magic, but they brought it into themselves, manipulated it in the air. He could almost see it shimmering before them. Even just these simple lessons, which Quentin somehow knew were the same sequences first and second year students were made to learn in any magic school, made him feel like he might float way in the quivering air, freed from the mistakes of this self and the other selves that lived inside him. 

When Marina had them practice a simple object manifestation spell, he felt the distinctive prickle of magic swimming through his blood. He went through the casting, copying Eliot’s movements, trying once and failing, frustrated. He shook out his hands, brows knitted. It seemed a tragedy that he could sense magic all around him, could feel it pulling into his veins, but nothing happened when he tried this simple thing. “God—I can feel it but—it’s not coming—”

“Hey, let me,” Eliot said. He moved behind Quentin and held his hands, moving his fingers for him, correcting the movements. Magic thrummed around them, Eliot’s breath hot on his neck, the taste of their magic combining, pulling ambient energy together until it was one thing. He finished the movements a second time with Eliot’s lips on his neck, his spine tingling with an almost sensual pleasure. As his fingers brushed past each other in the final movement, he plucked a blue and white swirled marble from the air, Eliot’s hands still on his wrists. 

His cheeks were hot, sparks flying beneath his skin, the marble cool against his fingers. “I—I did that.”

“You did,” Eliot murmured. “It took you a week your first year. I remember I kept watching you, but I wouldn’t—I didn’t help you.”

“God. You are kind of a dick.”

“I am.” Eliot kissed the back of his neck. In front of _everyone_. Margo rolled her eyes pointedly, but she looked pleased, holding up a solid pink marble so they could see. “But I knew it was a good way to keep watching your hands move. It was very cute.”

“Oh, _God_. You know, it’s really weird when you talk about things I never actually did.” 

“I guess. I didn’t actually do them either. It was—you know—the older version of me. It helps if I think of him as real.”

“Hm,” Quentin hummed, considering. “You should have helped me.”

“I did, eventually. When I realized I could be touching you.” He encircled Quentin’s wrist with his fingers, moving his thumb in circles over the base of his palm. “You just thought I was being friendly. Little did you know, I’m not just friendly for kicks.”

Quentin laughed. “I’m guessing I was too occupied with you touching me to think all that coherently.”

“Maybe. You didn’t give me any hints about the level of your… interest.”

“I’m shit at dropping hints. Did I do okay this go round?”

“Mm hm. Much better. Really, you just… took all my hints.” 

“You weren’t very subtle.” He took Eliot’s hand in his, holding it over his chest, tracing his fingertip along the ridges of his knuckles, sinking back into him, into the soft waves of his being. He’d never been happy like this, had he? Not in this world. 

“I don’t think subtlety is my strong suit.” He paused. They were both watching Alice transform her marble into tiny figures—a whale, a grasshopper, a galloping horse. It seemed she knew the moves by heart. Quentin would have thought it odd, out of place, but everything felt like that right now. Nothing in the world felt like it could be a surprise. Alice even squealed and put a hand on Margo’s shoulder, drawing it away quickly like she’d touched something that might shatter with prolonged contact. Margo gave her an uncharacteristically soft look, like she’d been shaken, made vulnerable by the mere practice of doing magic.

“You are with people, I think. Like, how you relate to other people and bring them together. I don’t have that kind of talent, like, at all.” Quentin held his hand tight, unwilling to let it go. 

“You have other talents,” Eliot whispered, breath hot on Quentin’s ear. A shiver ran down the length of his spine, and he thought he felt a hint of Eliot’s magic—maybe just the magic of who he was—dancing like sparks beneath his skin. 

“You guys are all so adorable,” Marina said, the acidity of her voice not quite matching her words. “But we’ve got some actual magic to do now that we’re done with the warmups.” 

“Those were warmups?” Quentin murmured. 

“I honestly have no idea. I just became a magician last week.”

Quentin took Eliot’s other hand in his, wrapping both of those strong arms around his body. A couple of their friends were giving them skeptical looks—yeah, okay, they were a little much. But as hazy as some of his thoughts from that other life were, he knew that they had waited a long time for this. He knew Eliot had memories of being older, living for decades on his own, bound by some force to Quentin, something that wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t know how to feel about that, how something had drawn Eliot here, something that hadn’t allowed him to let go of Quentin. But there was another sense that ran parallel to that knowledge—that other version of Quentin Coldwater had left his world too soon. His was a life unfinished. He hadn’t decided—and he knew he might not ever be able to parse it—if that same soul, the soul that had fallen in love with Eliot, had come to this timeline, inhabited this body, if they were the _same_ person. When the sense of _knowing_ Eliot, of _knowing_ magic, came to him in those jagged pieces, he felt like it might be true. He could just be… a copy, floating through this timeline, one echo of an infinite number of Quentins across the multiverse. It seemed to him, though, that there was some greater meaning to their union—a chance to start in a different place, a place where Quentin was on the right meds and the right treatment, where Eliot had the experience of someone who had lived longer than he’d ever expected to. He felt all of that, unsteady and wild, when Eliot held him. But he was contained in Eliot; his arms put a limit on the pain, the uncertainty. He leaned into that safety, let himself feel all the terrifying things. And they were okay—because Eliot had him. He was there.

Marina was still talking—something about cooperative spell casting—but he wasn’t listening especially well. He just wrapped himself in the citrus-sage scent of Eliot, the long lines of his bones, the warm reality of his presence. He tuned out for a while, pretending to watch what she was doing, absorbing bits and pieces. It wasn’t good classroom etiquette, but Quentin hadn’t been great at paying attention in class on the best day, and the Adderall had long worn off. Whatever they were learning, Eliot could show him. But something shifted in Marina’s voice, and Quentin’s brain snapped to attention.

“… and our wards haven’t been broken in a long time—not here, and not at the safe house. We don’t know if it’s one of the other covens on the East Coast, or if it’s someone acting solo. Eliot reported that the wards on his apartment had been tampered with in the past week—and again last night. So we’re going to work on a cooperative casting to strengthen the wards at the bar, and then I’ll lead the novices through several simple warding spells for protecting your homes and your minds. Something is out there, and it’s likely interested in fucking with us.”

“El? You didn’t tell me—”

“I—I didn’t think it was a big deal. I told Marina because—”

“Was it—was it whoever did that to you—the first night?”

“No—I. I don’t know,” he whispered. Eliot pulled him in tighter. God, he knew they were annoying. “I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t know if—”

“And—for the record,” Marina said pointedly, “being lovebirds doesn’t exempt you from learning the warding spells. Got it, Eliot? Eliot’s boyfriend?”

Quentin nodded, his heart pounding double-time. He had a vague notion of what wards did, how they were put together, how hard they were to break when done correctly. If someone had broken past the wards at the bar—he hadn’t even considered that a bar would _have_ wards—what else were they capable of? 

Eliot groaned. “God, I didn’t drop out of my universe for more fucking trouble.” 

Quentin snorted. “It’ll be… fine. We’ll figure it out. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “My hero.”

“Stop it.” Quentin’s cheeks went red. “You should take this seriously—someone almost killed you.”

Eliot sighed, making a sound like he was _bored_ of the entire concept of peril. Quentin felt the rumbling of his chest against his back. “I don’t know if—well, I don’t remember much of anything from that night, Q. I just… woke up. Marina took me home. I dreamed about you. About us.”

A blush crept over Quentin’s cheeks. He looked down at Eliot’s hand in his, tracing his fingers over the silver rings he wore. He had a flash of a memory, a wedding ring he wore in the life where they grew old together. He didn’t know if that marriage had belonged to _them_ or to Eliot and the wife he’d had in Fillory. Something pricked inside his chest, but he couldn’t quite identify why. He couldn’t put his finger on how he’d felt when Eliot had become king, when he’d married. Eliot hadn’t belonged to him then, in that life. The dreams Quentin had, starting just before Eliot had arrived in this world, revolved around their time together in Fillory, a place and time where his emotions were a fiery jumble—over-bright, disorganized, dangerous. “I had dreams about you that first week—before I met you. I didn’t know what they were. Isn’t that weird?”

Eliot’s arms held him tight, like he was reminding Quentin of their place in the world, tied together. “That was me. I think. Calling you. The magic that got me here was tailored to… me. To what I was looking for.” Eliot spoke in low tones, the two of them trying to act like they were paying full attention. He kind of hoped Eliot was. Or that he knew the spell. He’d rather put bets on the latter, given Eliot’s general attention span (limited) and enthusiasm for following directions (nil).

“I’m glad,” Quentin said. “Which is why I think you should—about the wards—like, we should be cautious. Like, if there’s someone or something—”

“I’m sure there’s not anything—”

“ _Eliot_ , seriously.” Something big and warm and protective sung inside of him. He _had_ Eliot. He was here. They were _alive_. They were staying that way. An accompanying part of him felt fucking irritated because it was _just like him_ , wasn’t it, to live in fucking denial, to see a threat and brush it off like it was _nothing_. He’d done this so many times. Quentin was too annoyed to see the absurdity of it—that he _knew_ this thing about Eliot as well as he knew his own miasmic depression or the whirring, ADHD-induced anxiety that flitted around in his brain with any new undertaking. More than the swirl of memories falling through him and, he felt this knowledge of Eliot, of who he was—it sat deep inside of him, woven into his tapestry, the creation made of multiple lives from different timelines, different worlds. 

“Seriously, what? I’m not terribly serious about anything—”

Marina glared at them, her look pointed. “You two—what was I talking about?”

Quentin pursed his lips, heart beating fast. He opened his mouth to answer. It was something about the way the shielding magic she’d learned would interact with the wards already around the bar, letting paying customers in and alerting Marina if anyone with active or latent magical abilities passed through the doors. But—after that—the actual spell work—Quentin had no fucking clue. 

“You were going to give us the spell?” Eliot ventured. 

“Fuck. If you’re going to be a part of this, you’d better quit acting like you’re sitting next to your sweetie in AP government. And you, Waugh. You fucking owe me. I’m nobody’s friend just for the fuck of it. Got it?”

“Yep,” Eliot said. Quentin could feel him nodding. “Roger that.”

“What’s her deal?” Quentin whispered. 

“Bad bitch,” Eliot whispered when Marina turned away. “Great at magic, better at bossing people around. Knowledge student—meta-composition. Discovering and creating new spells, diverse types of casting. She was… maybe ‘evil’ isn’t a perfect word? But devious, sociopathic, completely lacking in normal human emotion… that’s how I’d describe the Marina I knew. As far as I know, she’s still there, running the biggest hedge witch operation in New York and—actually educating magicians? Probably just to stick it to Brakebills.”

Quentin sucked in a breath, watching Marina’s face draw into a hard line as she tried to coach Todd through a warding spell. “And she’s like—what?—our teacher? Cult leader?”

“She’s not so bad here,” Eliot said. They watched Marina as she passed out copies of the casting in little books that looked like they’d been made up at Kinko’s. “See? She has handouts. Like it or not, she’s the best we’ve got if any of you want to pick up anything real, not just tidbits from the… mind… memory things.”

“Eloquent.” 

“Why, thank you.” Eliot put his hand on the small of Quentin’s back, his thumb making circles there.

Marina came over to them with her stack of booklets and shoved one in each of their hands. Her mouth was drawn into a hard line, tiny creases at the corners of her eyes. She looked over Quentin like she was appraising him. “Mending?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. According to Eliot. It seems—right. Not flashy but—”

“It takes all kinds,” she said. “Study up.”

“Oh. I—um. I will. Thanks.”

“Don’t get cocky. Just learn your shit.” She turned on her heels, headed toward Penny.

He unconsciously took Eliot’s hand in his for a moment before Eliot started reading through the pages, showing Quentin the tuts, explaining which of Popper’s exercises played into the formation of the warding spell, how they worked with the additional tuts. Eliot zoned in and worked with him tirelessly, moving Quentin’s hands into the proper formations until he could draw the gossamer-like threads of magic from the air, combining them to make a simple ward. He felt the magic humming in the air. He could almost pluck it from the air with his fingers, take the strands of power and combining them, weaving them together into something that looked invisible, but when Quentin pressed at the space in the air, the lines lit up, glowing blue. He could tell it had _worked_ , that he’d created something new where there once had been nothing, something powerful.

“ _Baby_ ,” Eliot said, cooing over Quentin, kissing the side of his neck. “You did so good.”

Quentin flushed under the praise. “Come on. It wasn’t that hard.” 

“This would have been at least a second year spell. Plus, Marina has the base spell combined with at least two other castings I know you never learned. You did so well, baby.” He lifted the back of Quentin’s shirt, his fingertips playing over Quentin’s skin. “Love that you did that. So proud of you.” 

Jesus. That went straight to his core, like a jolt of electricity. Eliot pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, catching Quentin’s chin in his hand and running his thumb over Quentin’s jawline. God, that was annoyingly fucking hot. And he did in front of like, everyone. Shit. Well. It’s not like they _didn’t know_ about him and Eliot. Penny was apparently a goddamn psychic, which still freaked Quentin the fuck out if he thought about it too hard. (How much did _Penny_ know about Quentin? Quentin had been panicking on and off about that one thing since Penny had shown up out of then air, completely soaked.) 

“Big event is next—we’ll do the cooperative casting. It’s an experience.” Eliot smoothed Quentin’s hair, fingers lifting the ends and letting it fall.

“Like when I did the mending spell the first time? With you?” Eliot’s magic combining with his had been almost erotic, the strong, sharp pulse of his telekinesis surrounding the bright, needle-like filaments of the mending spell Eliot had taught him. It had felt like Eliot was surrounding him, suffusing Quentin’s magic with the stunning beauty of his own power.

“Not quite. Similar. We were doing magic side by side. This spell requires combined magic, like… mixing salt into water. It combines to make something new, with new properties.” 

“Wow, that is—”

“I know. An amazing analogy. I’m talented.”

“I was going to say, that is… really nerdy.” 

“Oh no—you did _not_ just say that.” Eliot pulled him into his arms again, holding him from behind and _biting_ him gently on his shoulder. 

Margo gave them an exasperated look, groaning audibly from across the circle. “Gross,” she whispered. Quentin flicked her off, and she laughed, drawing a glare from Marina.

Marina stepped into the center of the circle again. “Seems like you’re all falling prey to your collective ADHD. So. We’re going to do this shit before we have six hundred pre-drunk college students clambering at the door for Todd to do fucking karaoke. So get your shit in order and prep to cast on my count. On three—”

Eliot squeezed his shoulder before they lined up, an arm’s width from the other magicians in the bar. When Marina raised her hands to cast, everyone else followed, falling into the tuts, chanting low in Latin, grasping at the fibers of magic in the air, pulling them together with the effort of their combined movements.

Quentin felt the energy in the room shift when their magic moves from separate forces working to form an interwoven collection of power, their own disparate talents finding one another and looping together. The effect was the same as the small ward Quentin had cast before, but much larger—surrounding all of them and pushing out toward the edges of the bar. The physical sensation was so much more than casting as one person—or even casting alongside Eliot. He could feel the individual rhythms of his friends’ magic, of the magic from the other members of the coven. The established magicians’ casting felt more surefooted, tamed and controlled. Julia’s magic came through like a wild, frenzied thing, overwhelming in its power. Margo’s felt just as wild, but it thrummed out on a different frequency, pushing and pulling at the threads of enchantment until it found its home, finally settling and joining the latticework of the spells pulsing together. He felt Alice’s power—crisp and clean and biting, Penny’s—low-pitched and warm, Kady’s—fiery and unrestrained, Eliot’s—comforting and familiar, Marina’s—heavy and dark, hanging over the collected magicians like a thunderstorm. When the spell took, Quentin could feel it in his bones, tugging at the places where magic lived inside of him, making his blood buzz with the promise of what they’d created—something safe and sure and strong, spreading its tendrils out and surrounding the bar. It locked into place with a resounding snap that Quentin _felt_ rather than heard, floating inside of him like champagne bubbles, fizzing and popping like he might lift off the ground and join the spell as it settled around them. When the magic had left them, solidifying around the exterior of the building, his body felt hollowed out and worn, like he’d just finished a ten mile run or a hundred laps at the pool. Quentin’s knees went weak; he almost fell to the ground, but Eliot caught him and pulled him into his arms. Eliot tipped his head toward him, hand on the back of his neck, kissing him and moaning softly into his mouth, tongue slipping between his lips.

Quentin laughed against Eliot, letting him deepen the kiss, guide him where he wanted. People around them were talking, chattering, the cadence of the sounds mixing into a soothing hum. He was half-aware that he was still in the bar, held tight in Eliot’s arms, protective and strong, like he could drift away on the sea of his thoughts, feel nothing for a few minutes, a few hours… find safety here with Eliot. Only Eliot. 

“Hey you fuckin’ love muffin.” There was a pinch on his arm, and he pulled away, shocked, to see Margo next to them, arms crossed. “Marina said everyone needs to do the warding spell wherever they live.” Margo nodded at Julia, who was arguing with Marina. “Julia is _not_ pleased, given that she made the shitty decision to go to Yale.”

“What?” Quentin looked at Julia and Marina, still a bit brainless, the leftover zing of magic still encasing him. He felt like he was listening to the voices around him from under a mound of cotton balls. 

“… but I don’t _live_ here,” Julia spat. “No one is going to come back to my apartment in Connecticut to help me cast—”

“Then, fine. Fucking get killed,” Marina said coolly. 

“ _Who_ is trying to kill anyone?” Julia groaned. “This is ridiculous.”

Marina pointed at Eliot. “ _Someone_ tried to kill _him_. Someone tried to break into his apartment. And someone has been fucking with the wards on this bar. To be clear—you’re a fucking witch. Someone is always trying to kill you. You’d be better off living in the city where you can get help when you need it.” 

“I’m at Yale Law,” Julia snapped. “My career is important.”

“You’re saying that to me like I’m supposed to think it means something. For the record, it really doesn’t.” Marina’s arms were crossed, jaw set. Something… almost amused sparked in her eyes. “It’s just another shitty, boring school for a shitty, boring job.”

“I have a lease on my apartment through the end of the year—”

“And? I’m not the one with the lease. I don’t give a happy fuck.” Her mouth slid into a smile, an icy thing. “You know, I also don’t give a happy fuck if you’re actually safe. I shared this ward with you out of the goodness of my heart—”

“Sure you did. No added benefit that we helped cast it to protect _your_ goddamn bar.” 

“And? It’s a safe place for any person or being with magic in the city, no exceptions. Believe me, I’m don’t give a tit about many people—it wouldn’t be my first choice to protect anyone but myself. But here I am, aren’t I? Doling out assistance by the bucketload because we all need each other to survive. I saved your—whatever—friend’s boyfriend. I’ve learned to take care of my own as well as I can, and I’ve got a loyal following as a result. Do I care if you’re part of it? I sure as fuck don’t. I could give _less of a fuck_. There are other witches in New York—just as talented as you are, too. Suit yourself and take the train back to Connecticut. We absorbed the coven at New Haven two years back, so you won’t have luck learning anything there. And the rule is that you can’t pop in here part time. You join us; you come to meetings, even when you’re sick. We take care of each other. But we won’t be bothered if some rival coven curses you or if a bog creature consumes your soul—”

“A bog creature? What the fuck?”

“I don’t fucking know what’s out there, but I know from experience that a lot of it isn’t pretty, and a lot of it wants to fucking eat your magic, no matter which Ivy League school is sucking your dick.”

“So what exactly do you suggest?”

“If I were you—and clearly, I’m glad I’m not—I’d move to the city pronto. Stay with one of your merry little friends. Get your wards in order and stay fucking local.”

“But—”

“I heard. Law school. I know you’re just so smart, so hard working, always the teacher’s pet.” Marina’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “But what’s better? Constitutional ethics or fucking magic? Get your shit figured out. If you stay, I’ll see you at the next meeting. Information will come through this.” Marina handed Julia a slim brass coin that looked worn with age. “Everyone in each household gets one. They work within a limited range. Leave the state—service gets spotty. Shit won’t work. Got it?”

Julia nodded curtly, clearly not used to being outdone. She slipped the coin in her pocket and motioned for Margo to follow her. 

“What? We’re not staying?” Margo had yet another drink and Alice laughing next to her. Which was, okay. That was… _different_.

“I need to get back to New Haven.”

“Jules,” Quentin ventured, “Maybe you should stay here—just for the night—”

“Q, I’m not paying attention to that—” She waved her hand in Marina’s direction. “—whoever she is. No one has paid any attention to me before. They won’t now. I can come into the city to learn. It doesn’t have to be from her.”

“Jules, you should probably listen—” 

“Q, seriously. I can take care of myself.” 

Alice was standing to the side, watching all of them nervously, bright blue eyes following their interactions. “Quentin is right. We need to—”

“I seriously didn’t need to hear shit from Marina, and I don’t need to hear _shit_ from you, Alice,” Julia said. 

“Hey,” Margo said, soft, soothing. “She’s trying to help. We all are.”

Quentin shot a nervous glance at Eliot. “Whoever attacked Eliot—”

“That’s sort of a dramatic way of stating—” Eliot started.

“El, it’s not. Tell Julia. Please.”

Eliot sighed. “Once you start doing magic intentionally, your magical signature is out there. It’s always been there—but—well. It’s just that it’s detectable now, which means that anyone looking will be able to find you. Q is right. With the amount of raw power you have… if someone is looking, they’ll get a read on you, even in New Haven.”

Julia pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. Marina’s group had scattered, setting up the stage for karaoke, the high tables, scattered around at the edges of the old warehouse. Eliot flicked his wrist, drawing over a small bottle of Grey Goose and a glass filled with ice and lime. He waved his index finger in a small circle, and vodka tipped into the glass. Banishing the bottle back to the bar, he took the drink from the air and handed it to Julia. She gave him a resigned little smile. “Thanks. Really. It’s good that—that you and Q are here in the city. That you have this. All of you guys. I guess. I’m the odd woman out.” 

“We’ll figure something out, Jules.” Quentin didn’t want to say it, but he’d always told her Yale was a bad fucking idea. His previous reasoning had revolved around wanting Julia in the city where they could see each other whenever they wanted, like forever, but he’d given up on that midway through their senior year at Columbia. Jules had wanted to go full lawyer and do her douchey Yale thing. He knew he couldn’t stop her when she’d set her mind to something—and his reasons back then had been selfish. Now, though. He wouldn’t say it, but Marina had a point. 

She squeezed the lime into her drink, taking a long sip before taking another long, shaky breath. “I didn’t know this would all—happen so fast. Magic.”

“I. Uh. Kinda know what you mean,” Quentin said. 

“Tell you you _weren’t_ waiting for a magic boyfriend to appear out of nowhere, and I’ll go blow Todd right now,” Margo said. She slung her arm around Julia. “So this shit ain’t sudden. We’re not going to fall into your trap, Coldwater. ‘Oh this is so sudden. I had no idea I wanted six feet of magic gay diaster to fall out of the sky and into my—’”

“Okay, okay, Jesus. Margo.” Quentin flushed red. He drew his eyes over to Alice, who was looking into her drink like it was the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. Somewhere, one of the coven members had put on music. It droned out of hidden speakers in a low, electronic hum.

“Tell me it’s _not true_. I will _actually_ blow Todd—”

Julia was laughing now, falling against Margo. “It’s so true,” she laughed, tossing back the rest of the vodka. “He definitely was waiting—all his damn life.”

He glanced at Eliot, who looked stricken, somehow, taken aback by what Margo had said. Almost like he’d seen a ghost. Quentin felt like that a hell of a lot with Eliot around, with the surge of sense-memories and echoes of lives he had never lived. But Eliot looked like he was next to tears. “You okay, El?”

“Just a—something Margo said. I just—remembered something she said before.” He smiled, his eyes soft and far away. 

Quentin got the sense he wasn’t talking about the Margo of this place and time. He squeezed Eliot’s hand. “You have to work, El?”

“Not tonight.” 

Margo and Julia had shifted, backs to Eliot and Quentin. Alice stood just behind Margo, like she was afraid she might be shunned again, like she might need to make an escape. They were working out the details of where Julia would stay the night—all other decisions TBD after karaoke and a big breakfast. 

“You wanna stay or go home?” Quentin laced his fingers through Eliot’s and brought it them to his lips, kissing along his knuckles. 

“Go home, I think. I should check my wards.” Eliot scrubbed at his face. “I need some sleep.”

“Want me to come with you?” 

“What kind of question is that?” Eliot kissed his temple and drew him in close. “Of course, baby. Please. I need you to _protect_ me.” 

Margo turned around and made a fake-disgusted face at the two of them. But her face went serious for a moment. She glanced back to where Julia was tentatively chatting with Alice. “I’ve got her,” she whispered to Quentin. “She can stay at mine. We’ll figure her shit out.”

“Bambi,” Eliot said affectionately, smiling that lovely, warm smile of his. She reached out and grabbed Eliot’s hand for just a moment. That felt… _right_. 

Eliot put his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck, which always made him shiver, made him _want_. He needed to—had to focus. Had to help Eliot with the spell. “You ready, El?”

“Mm, yeah.” He slipped his arm down around Quentin’s shoulders and led him away from the Stand In, the place where Quentin had experienced cooperative spell casting for the first time. 

He could smell spring on the air when they left the bar, a touch of humidity falling over the city, a harbinger of the superheated days to come. Right now, the change in the weather just felt hopeful, not stifling. “Has anyone messed with your wards since—”

“No,” Eliot said, rounding the corner by his apartment. “It’s all just fine. A fluke.” 

Quentin nodded, wanting to believe that was the case, that it was all just fine. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll do the spell. That’ll—we’ll make sure it works. That’ll help.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said absently. “It will. It can wait til morning. My wards are solid.”

“El—come on.”

Eliot unlocked the old wooden door, covered in flaking paint, pulling Quentin in behind him and holding his hand as they walked up the flight of stairs to his apartment. Eliot swept him inside and secured his wards, methodically. He pushed Quentin against the door, pressing between his legs, lips slotted against his. “I can lift you with my magic. Keep you propped up against the door—if you wanna try.”

Quentin’s cheeks went hot. He nodded. And he didn’t do any worrying after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been... a while. I'll be updating more frequently since I exorcised three other fics out of my brain. I'm working on finishing Pictures of You, and I'm working on a rom-com AU for the MHEA big bang! Follow me on Tumblr to keep track at @hoko-onchi-writes or subscribe to my author page here! I may be doing other one-shots as time flows along, but I'm intensely into getting POY finished. I promise. xoxo


	25. Whenever I’m Alone With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin share a moment. Eliot reminisces. But something’s not quite right.
> 
> MANY thanks to Rubi for your beta work, and to Aud and Tay for your encouragement!

~Eliot~

In Eliot’s other life, he’d discovered the many uses of telekinesis during sex just after he’d turned twenty. Before that, he’d never had the chance to fuck another magician. All of his experience up to that point had been awkward _where-does-my-dick-go_ type fumbling with other theater kids, both at Purchase and backstage at the Whiteland Community Theater Group in Indiana. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could use his magic for anything other than breaking something (or someone) until he met Cedric, a hedge witch an ungodly amount of gorgeous freckles and an alluring crooked smile. If Ced had gotten into Brakebills (he’d never gotten called in), he would have been a physical kid. He was another telekinetic, though he could bend and reshape items midair, a kind of halfway type of object transformation that he used to impress all the boy-magicians who wound up in the city, lost and alone. Eliot had been impressed when he’d met Ced, lonely and horny and living in his third cousin’s apartment in the Bronx. He’d been even more impressed when Cedric ran his tongue along the shell of Eliot’s ear and told him, “I’ll show you what _else_ I can do with magic, sweetheart.” He was mean and more than a little rough, but he held Eliot aloft with his magic and fucked him with his hand pressed tight against Eliot’s throat as Eliot floated on nothing, legs wrapped around his freckly, muscled torso. He came harder than he ever had in his life, and he promptly dedicated his brilliance to learning everything there was to know about the intersection of magic and sex. It really, he thought, should have been a discipline at Brakebills. 

It was weird that the memories of that summer were as much a part of him as the oatmeal he’d eaten for breakfast that morning, though his short-lived relationship with Ced had never happened to this body; had never even happened in this world. But the _knowledge_ was there, wrapped up neat among his other memories, just waiting to be opened and used. 

He pushed Quentin against the door, lifting his gray t-shirt and bending to lick at one of his nipples. Quentin grabbed at Eliot’s hair, rough, pulling a little too hard. “Jesus—your _tongue_.”

He bit down gently, barely scraping his teeth against the pebbled skin. Quentin was writhing and kicking his leg back behind Eliot’s calf like he couldn’t _stand it_ that Eliot was touching him. Really, he was barely doing anything at all. It was _immensely gratifying_ and very possibly worth every ounce of trouble he’d caused for himself in getting here. 

“Not even doing anything,” Eliot mumbled, rucking up Quentin's shirt and tossing it across the room. He didn’t take his mouth away from Quentin’s skin when he performed the tuts, hands falling into a pattern he’d never tried in this world. But he’d done it dozens of times in his other body—and probably _hundreds_ of times when they’d lived at the mosaic. Quentin was weak for magic on any day, but he was especially weak for the places where magic intersected with sex. He buried his face against Quentin’s smattering of chest hair, taking in the scent from just right there—musky and masculine and _right_ , the same Quentin from his memories. He crossed his index fingers over one another, pulling on the ambient magic, twisting his hands and spreading kinetic webbing behind Quentin’s body. Quentin squeaked when Eliot hoisted him up and sank him back into the invisible cradle of his magic. Q was biting his lip, luminously beautiful, his back against the door, legs and hips held up by the strong threads of Eliot’s telekinesis.

Eliot leaned in and rubbed his nose against Quentin’s, closing the space between them so he could run his hands over Q’s ribs, lightly muscled abdomen, strong arms, his slender forearms covered in all that lovely hair. “Feel good?”

“It’s just like—” Quentin kissed him, stumbling over his words, wet and sloppy. “—like sitting in a hammock.” 

“Yeah, it’s like that but I can—” Eliot ran his hands along the underside of Quentin’s thighs, brushing over the soft fabric of his jeans. “—do whatever I want to you. Nothing in the way.”

“And I—I won’t fall,” Quentin murmured, as if he were making sure. 

“No, baby. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He bit at Quentin’s lower lip, kissing him slow, warm and honeyed, tongue darting between his lips and meeting Quentin’s plush-hot tongue. Q moaned into his mouth, his hands playing with the curls at the back of his neck. Eliot brushed his hands over his back, dipping his fingers along the waistband of his jeans, his _plaid boxers_. Jesus. So fucking cute. Quentin’s body started to relax beneath his hands, his breath slowing as he sank into the pleasure, falling away from the type of nervousness inherent in being held by something invisible. “Okay if I take off the rest of your clothes, baby?”

Quentin nodded, a little out of it. “Yeah, definitely is. Whatever you want, El,” he said, his voice a little thick. “Wanna feel you.” When Eliot brushed Q’s hair back behind his ear, he saw that Quentin’s pupils were blown, eyes almost black. Just from this. From the softest touch, from _magic._

“I can do that, sweetheart.” _My love. Mine,_ he thought, possessive. Eliot helped him shimmy out of his shoes and jeans and boxers, hands skimming over his firm little ass.

Quentin whined, leaning forward and fumbling with Eliot’s buttons. He couldn’t quite get purchase from the way Eliot had him suspended, which was—God, that was _hot_. “Come on—get out of these—stupid clothes.”

Eliot caught his wrist. “No. I spent a _while_ selecting this ensemble. It’s staying on.” He raised an eyebrow, relishing the thought. “Okay with you?”

Quentin nodded, eyes hot, cheeks a glorious shade of red. He tipped his head back, hair falling over his shoulders. “Ah. Oh—okay.”

“Good. Good boy.” Eliot ran a finger along Quentin’s hairline, down along his jaw, over the sweet bow of his lower lip. He wanted to say it again—that he loved Quentin. Like an irresponsible, impossible, world-moving amount of love. But. Quentin hadn’t said it, had he? That was fine. Eliot was fine with it. It had happened quickly, this version of them. He’d appeared in Quentin’s life out of nowhere, already maddeningly in love with him. Now they were kind of both—he didn’t know, exactly—amalgams, maybe, of the selves they’d been in what Fogg had called Timeline 40 and the young men they were in this world. What had happened when he’d jumped had been far more complicated than he’d imagined. He remembered now—the early conversations with Margo and Alice, what they _thought_ might happen. To their knowledge—some of the best and brightest minds of magic—no one had ever attempted to jump into another dimension, one that ran separately from theirs. Timelines, sure. Dimensions—separate universes—infinitely more complex. And Eliot had not only accomplished that but had _gone back in time_ to a decades-younger version of himself.

It was dizzyingly complex. He’d dropped into Quentin’s life from nowhere. He couldn’t expect a quick response from something so strange, so confusing. 

This, though, was simple. He knew Quentin wanted this, had wanted it from the moment he’d first seen Eliot. He wanted Eliot’s lips and tongue and cock. And he was _insane_ for Eliot’s magic. 

Fuck the extra wards. He’d do them in the morning. 

He skimmed his lips along the pale, soft stretch of Quentin’s neck, closing his eyes and taking in the skittering beat of Quentin’s pulse against his cheek, the weight of Quentin’s firm thighs in his hands, the scratchy-soft touch of his furred legs, wrapping around him. 

“Feels like all the tension is melting—um— _El_ —” Quentin started whimpering, trying to move.

“Hm?” Eliot’s hand was fitted around Quentin’s half-hard cock. He ran his thumb along the underside of his shaft and over the tip, just to watch Quentin shiver. Eliot could feel himself stiffening up just holding Quentin like this, held aloft on the netting of his magic. He began stroking him slowly, just enough to bring attention to his cock, enough to make him moan and throw his head back. At this height… held just at Eliot’s waist, Quentin was at the right place for well, a lot of things, really. Right now he was just fitting his fingers around his dick, jerking him off gently, whispering in his ear how pretty and sweet he was, how much he’d wanted him the entire night, how he loved watching Quentin when he did magic, his _hands_ , knowing he was the one who got to take him home and see him exactly like _this_. 

“Uh,” Quentin started. “I—feels like all the tension is melting away. That’s what I—that’s what I was saying.”

“Good. You deserve that.” Eliot fitted himself between Quentin’s legs, moving in closer. His hands cupped Quentin’s ass with his other hand, and he shivered, just a little. His skin was so soft, tempting, soft hair on his strong thighs, his firm little ass. Eliot brushed his fingers between his cheeks, watching his face as he shuddered and licked his lips. “I wanna get you ready.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agreed. “Yeah, s’good.” 

Just touching his skin, which was hot and soft against Eliot’s hands, sent a wave of wanting through him so intense that it nearly made him buckle at the knees, fall to the floor beneath him. He knew he wasn’t fully the same man who had loved Quentin in another world—he was this Eliot, the one who was twenty-five and studied fashion and cooked risotto on their first real date, but he was imbued with all the spirit of a man who had loved and lost the best thing that had ever happened to him. Eliot did the quick series of tuts that drew lube to his fingers and gently circled his fingers over Quentin’s hole, putting the slightest bit of pressure against his rim. “You ready baby?”

“Mmm.” Quentin nodded, tilting his head back. The look of worry that had plagued him on their walk to Eliot’s apartment was gone now. And really—this place was _safe_. Eliot had solid wards—spells he remembered from his early days of teaching at Brakebills. He guessed they were just as good as—or better—than Marina’s hedge spell. Granted, Marina was fucking smart—scary smart, emphasis on the scary. But Eliot was classically trained, and he had his memories. He had his magic, and he knew his wards worked. Whoever had been trying to push against them hadn’t gotten in, had they?

When he slipped his fingers inside of Quentin, he gasped. He was hot and tight around him, smooth and clean inside from his prep spell, ready for him. He was already sighing and whining as Eliot pressed inside of him. He put his lips to Quentin’s, crowding him as he slid his fingers just a bit deeper, crooking them and pressing ever so slightly, eliciting a sharp breath and a small moan, pressed out against Eliot’s lips. He wanted to talk dirty at him or wind him up, but he felt just—broken open, cracked. He couldn’t even speak; he couldn’t stop kissing Quentin or petting at the inside of him, savoring the heat of his body, the little responsive twitches and movements as Eliot fucked into him. The piece of him from this world had never felt so much—had never _wanted_ to feel so much. He’d spent his adult years attempting to kill off the parts of his mind that would lead to such intensity of feeling, that would leave him so vulnerable.

This boy would always undo him completely, no matter what world they were in.

Eliot’s cock pressed painfully against the fabric of his trousers—just from kissing Quentin, from touching his lovely bare body. He’d always pushed Eliot to his edge, even before he knew what it was to be in love with Quentin. From the moment he’d seen that lost boy stumbling through the bushes, his remaining functional brain cells had conspired to win Quentin and keep him, no matter what that looked like. In those early days, he’d been—honestly—just trying to seduce Quentin. A worthwhile pursuit. As time wore on, he saw that disarming openness, the relentless passion he brought to everything he did, the deep well of pain he carried within him. 

Quentin had always been beautiful. But it had snuck up on Eliot that he was far more than that. He was worth knowing, whatever form that took. 

He was embarrassingly turned on right now, just from feeling Quentin hot and tight around him, his sweet little begging sounds, his lightly furred legs wrapped around Eliot’s waist. “I need to—” Eliot huffed, knocked out of skull, just _watching_ Quentin. His lips were kissed pink and slightly swollen, a hint of stubble burn along his cheeks, his expression blissed out as Eliot held him aloft with his magic, fucking his fingers in and out, slow and rhythmic. “Wanna have you, right now.”

Quentin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and licked his lips. “Yeah.”

“I’ll do the spell to—”

Quentin was already nodding, and Eliot moved his free hand in a quick series of tuts—he could feel it take inside of Quentin, relaxing his muscles, loosening him up more and making him all _open_ inside. He normally liked to take the long road—it was just as good as the main action in Eliot’s humble opinion, especially with Quentin—but magic was an excellent addition when you needed to get inside your boyfriend as soon as humanly possible. 

Quentin rolled his shoulders and whimpered when Eliot pulled his fingers away. “Feels— _so weird_.”

“I know, baby. I’m gonna make you feel good, okay?” Eliot kissed along Quentin’s neck, nipping at his collarbone as he undid his trousers. Quentin draped himself over Eliot, touching him anywhere he could find skin, lips against his neck as Eliot pulled his cock out—already _so hard_ —and lining up just against Quentin’s entrance. When he moved his hands _just so_ , he could find the edges of his magic and lower Quentin down just the slightest bit so that he pressed against the head of Eliot’s cock. 

“Oh—my God.” Quentin groaned, low and ragged as Eliot lowered Quentin further, just enough to thrust up and push the head of his cock inside. “God, you’re _thick_.”

“You fucking love it,” he murmured. 

“Yeah,” Quentin said, nodding wildly. Trickles of sweat formed along his hairline. “I really fucking do.”

Eliot tutted and lowered Quentin another inch; his cock slipped further inside.

Quentin’s ass clenched against him, and he bit down on a groan, pulling Quentin down, giving him an inch or so more. He shivered, legs loose around Eliot’s waist. He had to relax to take him fully, regardless of the spell. It was strange to think that Quentin’s body, so real and solid in this world, might actually remember doing this with Eliot. 

Eliot nosed at his hair, kissed along the shell of his ear, down his jaw. “You feel amazing, sweetheart.” 

“El—Eliot,” Quentin whispered, cupping his face and kissing him, tongue slipping between Eliot’s lips. 

Quentin shivered. “Why—” Eliot tutted again and lowered Quentin’s body—the barest slide, further, Quentin just _opening_ for him. Quentin’s cheeks look like they’ve been slapped—so _red_ —his legs were trembling. “—oh my _God_ , why does it feel—so good—with you?” 

With a final little flourish, which Quentin watches with hunger, Eliot lowered Quentin’s body all the way to the base of his cock, shuddering and letting his head fall—exquisite agony—against Quentin’s shoulder. “Because I _know you_.”

He refrained from saying all the other things that play through his mind. _Because I love you. Because I’ve needed you for decades, I’ve longed for you, for this, for all the things we didn’t get to share. The things we missed. The things I caused. The things I refused to accept._

Quentin’s mouth found his collarbone, teeth scraping over skin, pink tongue darting out, warm and velvety. There was a heavy feeling to his desire, his body and brain wanting and pulling and needing, like a dying star collapsing, the weight of too many lifetimes sitting at Eliot’s core and trying to capture too much all at once. 

A solid knot of guilt sat inside. He’d been too much, too fast for Quentin in this world. Everything changed so quickly when he made his way here; and it was Eliot’s fault that it had. He chose this chaos, dragged Quentin into it along with him. And there was no way he could pull away, not with Quentin here, wanting him like he does.

He could give him this. He grasped his hips, pulling back and thrusting up inside, his abdomen tensing, legs shaking. The shame and the tragedy and the mountain of memories blurred away as he sank into the molten-hot, tender core of Quentin, the grip and drag of him, clenching and releasing. A bright spool twisted the spinning threads of pleasure expanding from his hips, from the burning muscles of his thighs, the hot point of Q’s mouth against the hollow of his neck, the soft sounds falling from his lips; the whir of sound and sensation gathered in the soft broken space of his soul. His hands ran over Quentin’s sides, fingertips exploring the shallow channels between his ribs, down to the divots of his hips as his rhythm changed, harder, faster, solid-wet-slapping sounds filling his senses as he grunted, chasing his pleasure, unstoppable. 

Quentin’s nails dug into the damp skin at the back of his neck, and he cried out. “’S good, feels good right there.”

Eliot laughed, the air punched out of him, his toes curling against the hardwoods. If he could just have this forever, for the rest of this life, he might have a shot of finding happiness. Fuck magic. He didn’t need it. Not unless it made Quentin happy—so fine, he’d take it, if it did. He cupped the side of Q’s face, dipping his thumb between those pink, kiss bitten lips, the force of those deep brown eyes falling on him, pupils blown wide, faded with bliss. “You like that? You going to come for me?”

Quentin whined, nodded, chasing the pad of Eliot’s thumb and sucking it gently, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Touch me. I’m—God, I’m _close_ —”

Eliot wrapped his fingers around Quentin’s cock, velvety-soft, blood hot. Quentin’s whole body jerked, a stuttering moan falling from his lips as Eliot worked a hand over his cock, a bead of white pooling at his tip. “You feel so— _so_ —” Eliot didn’t have a way to finish that thought that wasn’t trite. He was _tight_ and slick-wet. But nothing was right to really capture the emotion, the tension, the _everything_ of Quentin. He kissed down the sweat-beaded line of Quentin’s neck, over the poky tips of his ears, licked into his mouth as he fucked into him, his lovely, lean back pressed hard against the force of Eliot’s magic. “—goddamn good—”

“You’re a poet,” Quentin murmured, biting at Eliot’s lips. “Oh _fuck_ —” His whole body seized, tensing up like a vise against Eliot’s cock. And he was coming, warmth spilling over his hand, his expression broken as he looked into Eliot’s eyes. “—I remember,” he murmured. “Remember doing this.” He laughed and let his head fall against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“Baby,” Eliot murmured, “my gorgeous boy.” Quentin’s arms were loose around his neck, his plump, wet lips nestled against his neck. If there was ever anything better than _this,_ Eliot didn’t think he’d found it. Not in any country, in any world he’d known. Tangling his fingers in Quentin’s hair, he chased his own high, slamming into him as Quentin’s body, loose and fucked out, bounced in his hands. He tugged at Q’s hair, shivering at the kittenish whine he made when Eliot found his lips again. The tension inside, the harsh tangle that had built as he worked Quentin into a frenzy, began to straighten, unspool, organizing itself like— _like a spell_ , his mind told him, from somewhere in its dark recesses, like an enchantment taking effect for the first time. Eliot kissed Q hard and hot and deep as he drove into him, spine tingling, an animal groan unleashing itself from his chest—and he came, buried deep, filling Quentin the way he _needed_.

He let Quentin down slow and easy, hissing as he pulled out, his hands automatically falling into the tuts to clean them both up right as Quentin slumped into his chest. “Hey, sweet thing. Can you walk?”

Quentin mumbled against his chest, nosing into the hair there. “Carry me.”

“Oh, _baby_ , you are _useless_.”

“Mmmyep,” Quentin slurred. 

“I’ll drop you if I try to carry you now. Tapped out. C’mon.” Eliot pulled Quentin’s arm around him and tugged him over to his bed, where they spent that first night wrapped up in each other, where they’ve returned, where he can’t be fucked to fall back on all the excuses he’s used in his life to push away the best things.

It was a heady thing—something beyond what Eliot had ever known before he died and came back, his selves rapidly integrating, becoming something new out of multiple parts. He was galvanized, reconstructed, perhaps closer to being whole than he had been in New York or Indiana or Fillory. Even at Brakebills, in California, living out the latter part of his life with Mia and the girls. His mind focused on an image, red hair with gray streaks, sitting out on the balcony as clouds rolled past, gray and heavy over the Pacific. _Mia_. He’d remembered her in a hazy way, fuzzing in and out of his mind. But he saw her clearly as he shoved Quentin into bed and followed suit, tucking their bodies together.

***

_“Promise me you’ll take care of her when you find her again.”_

_“I will.” He’d said it authoritatively, so unlike his actual feelings on the journey he’d soon be taking._

_“Tell her I loved her—”_

_“I will. I—if I remember.” Eliot had paused, lit another cigarette. He was planning to quit before he left. “I don’t know how much I’ll remember. If I’ll even—remember him.”_

_“Then _don’t go_.”_

_He’d laughed. “You’re the only one who thinks I ought to stay.”_

_“I’m the _boring muggle_.” She’d grabbed his hand and squeezed it, leaning into his side as they rocked on the porch swing and listened to the waves roll over the shore. Eliot knew he was headed out soon, no matter what. Best to end his life with more life, no matter what that looked like. _

_“Darling, you’re _far from boring_. You could never be.” He’d coughed, a low throaty thing. Even after all these years, whatever illness had almost claimed him held sway in his lungs. It would be the thing that sent him on his way no matter what. He had one good year left, maybe, but some damage wasn’t reversible, even with magic. It would be downhill after the inhalers and potions stopped working. He didn’t want to be an old man weighing Mia down. Mia, who had Alice and her girls, a bevy of people who loved her. “I don’t want to leave you, Mia.”_

_“The girls will miss you—”_

_“The girls are fine.” Eliot smoked the last of his cigarette down to the stub and disappeared it just above the balcony railing._

_She sighed. “I know.”_

_“My life doesn’t work.” He’d said that before, a long time ago. Unfortunately, it was still true. “I might as well get a clean start. Or all that trouble was for nothing.”_

_“She carried her guilt for a long time.”_

_“I know. I told her—it wasn’t anyone’s _fault_.” His, maybe. “No one knew how bad it was with him. I told her—”_

_“Like she’d listen to you.”_

_“Wasn’t a priority for her. She had it all figured out.”_

_They’d let the conversation fade out. It wasn’t the first or the last time they’d had it. That was what happened when you got old. The same words kept repeating themselves, trying to find their way home. But Eliot’s home had been whittled down to just this, all his other words fluttering loose and searching for those he’d lost._

***

It wasn’t the first time he’d had a memory of Mia, but the others had been hazy and blurred at the edges. This one felt—different. Present, almost.

“What’re you all tense about?” Quentin yawned and clasped himself around Eliot like a starfish. “We just did magic and—uh, you fucked me against the door. You should be relaxed.” He yawned again.

“I overdosed,” he blurted. “Last year. Not quite eighteen months ago. Margo got me to the hospital. That’s why we’re not friends. Weren’t friends.”

Quentin was quiet for a while, stroking Eliot’s back, breathing quietly. Eliot’s pulse has begun to go scattered, a low whine in his ears, cotton caught in his throat. “You gonna do anything like that again?”

“No,” he said. “Not planning on it.” He thought of the eight or ten cigarettes he’d smoked that day, the drinks he’d poured on his liver tonight. Maybe he should reconsider some of his baser coping mechanisms. Drown himself into Quentin instead. He guessed a professional probably wouldn’t recommend that, but it was better than slowly killing himself all over again.

“Okay, then. That was—she said she had her reasons, and yeah. I get it. It’s like—she met you at this very specific point in your life. And that part is done, right?”

“Think so,” Eliot said. He dipped his hand in Quentin’s hair, watching it fall through his fingers in the low light coming in through the windows. “She was my person in my other life. She and her family were my actual family.”

“I know. I—I remember some things. Kind of like a dream that slips away when you think about it too hard.”

“Echoes,” Eliot said.

“Yeah, like echoes. I remember you two at, uh, Brakebills. Living in The Cottage. I remember Alice some.” His hand played over Eliot’s chest, scritching through his chest hair. 

“Anything else?” Eliot twisted his fingers in a familiar tut, one that sat deep inside him in the place of his memories.

“I remember falling in love with you. At the mosaic.”

Eliot’s heart beat hard, scattered and thrumming in his ears. “Those memories—”

“Little weird,” Quentin said. “Yeah they’re, you know, not clear. It’s the same for you, yeah?”

“Yeah. Echoes of echoes.”

Quentin curled into his body, pressing a knee between his legs, like the bed hogging starfish he most definitely was. “We were together for a long time.”

“We were.”

“I asked you when we came back—or when we remembered—”

“Yeah. I was a dick.”

“Yeah but. You found me because it wasn’t true.” 

“I did. It’s more than that—it was my fault. So much of what happened to you was because I was selfish.”

“That’s not how I see it,” Quentin said. “I see it like—we were trying to save magic, right?”

“We were.”

“It wasn’t the right time.”

“You really don’t give a fuck about timing on your best day,” Eliot said. “I didn’t think you could love me. I didn’t think I could love you, not the way you needed.”

“Yeah, I know that, like. I don’t think I knew it then. I loved you so much, and I got you back, didn’t I? You made it back safe in that life. I got you away from that _thing_ that took you away—I got you back to Margo.” Quentin’s words were slow and thoughtful, like he was picking his way through a puzzle. “I got you home safe. I was—I think that was the important thing. To me. That was my whole focus. I know we would have worked it out if I’d survived.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Eliot said. “I was so fucked up. In that timeline, in this one.”

“You gave yourself a fresh start here.”

“And I dragged you into my fresh start.”

“Eliot, you gave me all these beautiful things. You’ve already given me _so much_. And I don’t know _why_ someone like you would want me, but I know I love you, too. And I’m planning to stay, no matter how fucked up you think you are. Okay?”

Eliot swallowed against the lump in his throat, pulling Quentin in close and tight. There was grief for the life he could have had, the life he did have, the way he wasted it, so focused on what he’d lost. And grief for the young man he was here, how he reached into this life from another, ripping apart that unknowing young man’s world, fundamentally changing everything for himself, for Quentin, for the people in their lives. Grief for the family he left behind.

“Yeah, okay.” He should have felt relief that Quentin loved him—he did, but it was tinged with the regret he’d hoped he’d left behind in that other world. He tried to focus on that syrupy, slow goodness, the feeling of being at _home_ with someone, more than he had in any of the years of his life in this world.

He fell asleep like that, pressed to Quentin, taking his time to _focus_ on what it felt like, to hold and be held by the man he loved in every world, in every timeline.

***

The sun was high, filtering in the windows when they woke. Eliot could tell that something was _wrong_ , even though Quentin slept peacefully in his arms. Outside, someone was trying to get _in_ , trying to get _at him_. He could feel the careful taking apart of the wards around his building like a tickle on the back of his neck, his magic tampered with and taken apart like ripping through wet paper. He bolted up, throwing his robe on around his shoulders and rebuilding the wards on the interior of the apartment, stepping through the door beyond and leaving Quentin safe in bed, protected.

He had an idea of what this might be, and Eliot was the one who needed to see to it. If he did one thing right here, one thing to deserve Quentin, it was to _protect_ him in a way he couldn’t before. He could do that, and the other pieces of himself might fall into place.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @ https://hoko-onchi-writes.tumblr.com/


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